Medicine Speaker
by Ursula4x
Summary: Peter Burke and Neal Caffrey lovers in pursuit of a Native American art thief. Mulder and Krycek Also lovers on the trail of a ghost shirt that really deflects bullets.


Title: Medicine Speaker

Author: Ursula

Rating: rating: R

Genre and/or Pairing: Neal Caffrey and Peter Burke, White Collar

Fox Mulder and Alex Krycek, X Files

Notes: I like to bring my culture into my stories since I will never be a professional writer, and I love to write about something I know. This is a watered down version with most of the sex scenes deleted. Full version is here:

.org/~?sid=46084&warning=FRAO

There are also three prequels to this there, Dark Alley, Bright Smile, Miisericordium, Honey Trap, and Masterpiece

Thank you very much to lj user="newsbean" for beta reading three or four times, a great beta reader!

Spoilers: Minor spoilers for all aired episodes including "All In"

Warnings: violence

Word Count: 27,820

Summary: New York is in chaos as a famed exhibit of Native American artifacts are on display to the displeasure of Native American activists including Jack Medicine Speaker, whom FBI White Collar Agent, Peter Burke, suspects of several art thefts. With him for life, is former con artist, document forger, and want to be Robin Hood, Neal Caffrey. Meanwhile, FBI Agent Fox Mulder and his newly reclaimed partner, Alex Krycek, are on the trail of an X File involving a Ghost Shirt, a Native American Artifact that allows the wearer to deflect bullets.

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

OooOooO

"You ever hear of Jack Medicine Speaker?" Peter Burke asked, putting down the extensive file he was reading to gaze at the man he regarded as his partner in more ways than the FBI would permit.

To some of Peter's colleagues, Neal Caffrey was a problem: the man who Peter Burke had rescued from jail and put on a probationary arrangement under FBI supervision to help solve crimes in Peter's White Collar Crime division.

To Peter, Neal was a partner he had learned to trust with his life. Neal was a delight with his quick wits, his charm, his insightful remarks that seemed to cut right through the bullshit to help Peter capture the men and women he chased.

To Peter, Neal was one of the two great miracles of his life. Ten years ago, Peter had fallen for the most beautiful, brightest, and most loving woman he had ever met, his wife, Elizabeth. Six months ago, Peter had fallen in love again with a man. Not only a man, but a felon who was in his charge.

Against all odds, Peter and Neal became lovers. Even more miraculously, Elizabeth not only accepted that Peter could love her and someone else, but she and Neal liked each other, even loved each other although it was not a sexual or romantic love.

A puff of air called Peter back from his reverie. Neal was inches from Peter's face, lips still pursed to blow. Peter pushed him back to an office acceptable distance. Neal grinned. He enjoyed teasing Peter.

"Alex and I went to see Medicine Speaker's one man show," Neal said.

"You went to see it with Alex Krycek? He doesn't strike me as much of a patron of the arts," Peter replied.

"Alex has a thing for Indians, and he knows Jack."

"Introduced you, did he?" Peter asked. He was still not sure he felt about Alex Krycek even though they had worked together on a recent case. Alex Krycek was currently a FBI agent, but when Neal had met him, Alex had been outside of the law. Neal had admitted that Alex was one of his former lovers and that they remained good friends. The only thing that made Peter tolerate Alex was that the man was deeply in love with his FBI partner, Fox Mulder and thus no longer a rival for Neal.

"Jack Medicine Speaker is a fascinating man," Neal replied. "Jack is on the scary side. He's fanatic about his faith, and his cause."

"I know," Peter said. "I suspect that half of his heists have to do with Native American artifacts that he believes shouldn't be on display. Apparently, some Native Americans believe all sacred objects from their culture should not be in museums or collections. Jack believes that so strongly that we think he has taken the law in his hands and has stolen religious artifacts."

"You haven't caught him yet," Neal teased.

"Yet," Peter said, "Yet."

"You know I love you when you sound so confident," Neal said.

A slight shake of Peter's head. He warned, "Be careful what you say around the office."

Peter wasn't ashamed of his Neal, but if the FBI found out, that was the end of their partnership. They would probably throw Neal back in prison. If Peter didn't break him out, Elizabeth would. They would all three end up on the run. Peter's Spanish was very poor, and Bolivia had an extradition treaty these days. Besides, who would feed Peter's beloved yellow Labrador retriever, Satchmo?

"It's just the way I talk," Neal pointed out, but he put on a less infatuated expression just in case. "So the other half of these suspected crimes?"

"Raise money for Native American causes," Peter said.

"He makes money with his performances, his CDs, and his movie roles," Neal objected.

"That's petty cash," Peter said. "There's money going to AIM, that's the American Indian Movement, or what's left of it with most of the leadership dead, in prison, or off being famous movie actors and lecturers. Medicine Speaker is tied to smaller Native American organizations that I believe would not want the IRS or the FBI to know about the money he gives them. The big guys may be in prison, making bad movies, or acting in science fiction shows, but there's still a violent, fanatic under core."

"Alex Krycek says that Native Americans have plenty of reason to fight back."

"Alex Krycek talks too much," Peter remarked.

Neal just laughed.

"We should go see Medicine Speaker's one man show with Elizabeth," Neal said. "Elizabeth will love him."

"The man is a thief."

"He served his time," Neal pointed out.

"No, I mean since he got out of prison," Peter said. "I would have caught him, but I couldn't chase you and him at the same time."

"Thanks for choosing me," Neal replied with a wry smile.

Peter threw a file at Neal.

Deflecting it, Neal caught it before it hit the ground, a nifty spin of his hand up righting it. There was a picture in the file enclosed in a plastic envelope. He took the picture out, and studied it at length. "Medicine bundle."

"Thought you specialized in European artists," Peter said.

"I needed a credit in social studies and the Native American art class counted," Neal said. "Besides, I have something in common."

"What?"

"Most Native American tribes decorate almost everything. Clothing, pots, baskets, tools, weapons, from a bob for a fishing net to a sewing needle, they see beauty everywhere and make it part of their everyday life. That's me. That's why prison was utter torture for me. It was the ugliest place I have ever been in. It was killing me a day at a time. If I'd had to do that second four years…"

Peter didn't say he was sorry. He didn't even make the excuse that he was just doing his job when he arrested Neal, the first time for manufacturing counterfeit bonds and the second time when Neal escaped prison to go after his former girlfriend, Kate. Peter believed that the world needed order. People, unfortunately, were not all as civilized as Neal. Neal could reach for beauty and grace without ever wanting to harm a soul. Most criminals cared for nothing. Even the finer tuned con men, art thieves, and forgers that Peter chased and caught did not always or often respect human life. Neal was a rule unto himself, but Peter could not make an exception and let him go. Open the gate a crack and hell rushed in. Peter's job was to guard the gate, not to make the rules.

Slowly, reluctantly because Peter did not want to fight with Neal, not today or any day, Peter said, "Neal, you forged those bonds. You may have thought it hurt no one, but innocent people were affected by the loss of the bank's money. The economy is unstable enough without having more people distrust banks."

Neal sighed and said, "I know, Peter, but it wasn't just for the money, and you know that. If I ever took paintings, not that I admit that I did, it would not have been just to own something incredible, even for just a few days. It was about the rush, the game, the challenge of doing something that so few others could do. It was art itself, Peter, the things I did, the life I lived."

"Art that left you hung out to dry, Neal."

"True," Neal said. He smiled sexily. "I couldn't stop dancing with you. If you slowed down, I left a hint. I just had to keep pushing it, see how close you could get and still get away. It was the biggest rush of my life, Peter. It really became all about you. Kate said so, and I argued, but, yeah, she was right. You are irresistible."

Peter made his quizzical face and said, "Only you and Elizabeth think so."

"Alex thinks you're cute, and Mulder says he can stand to share an investigation with you, which is as close as he can come to admitting that he too finds you the perfect man."

No hugging in the office, Peter told himself in the same tone that reminded Neal not to dance here no matter how brilliant an idea he had. The thought made him smile. He loved it when Neal was so excited about something that it came out as a dance, a spin, an outrageous grin.

"We really should get tickets," Neal said. "Medicine Speaker is incredible. Irredeemably straight, Alex reports, but sexy as hell anyway."

"I suppose you are going to tell Elizabeth all about him, and I'll be caught between the most uncontainable forces on earth unless I give in?"

Neal's eyebrows lifted to give the full effect of his blue eyes. "I think that sums it up."

"I'd offer you my credit card to order the tickets, but why bother when I'm talking to you."

"I only buy things we really need."

Peter snorted. Sure, like the world collection of hand crafted lube that arrived in the mail. Although, that had been fun. Should have Neal order some more. They were using a lot of it.

Neal was already tapping in Peter's password. Peter had changed it repeatedly but had finally given up. Surrender worked better as a general practice for dealing with Neal.

"Elizabeth will probably need a new dress," Peter said with a sigh.

"She can afford one," Neal said.

It was the truth. Elizabeth's business had grown fast since the party she and Neal threw to draw in that Israeli counterfeiter. Elizabeth was a party planner and social organizer. The glittering affair with sixty-four, no, sixty-five (because there were a pair of twins) models attending had created a buzz in New York's elite set that made Elizabeth all the rage.

"You are not getting a new suit," Peter warned.

"That's okay, I like my old ones, because…"

"The classics never go out of style," Peter chimed in.

When they left for the day, for the sake of anyone who might have noticed that Neal went home with him most days, Peter said, "Elizabeth said I should bring you home for dinner. She wants to put some meat on your bones."

"I'd be delighted," Neal said.

OooOooO

In reality, the guest room stopped being the guest room weeks ago. It was now Neal's room where Peter made love to him, where an increasing number of Neal's favorite things had migrated.

It used to be that Peter slept the remainder of the night with Elizabeth even if sometimes he wanted to hold Neal in his arms forever.

One night, Neal followed Peter back to the bed where Elizabeth waited to ask him something. Elizabeth patted the bed in invitation, and Neal happily accepted.

It was just sleeping. Peter had his Elizabeth. Peter had his Neal. His wife and his lover were fast friends, but that was all. That might change or might not. It almost didn't matter because they had forged a particular kind of family out what should have been a classic, and tragic, triangle.

Peter's kiss and swift snuggle with Elizabeth was followed by almost the same greeting from Neal.

Over dinner, Neal entertained Elizabeth with stories about the legendary Jack Medicine Speaker. He told Elizabeth about Jack's escape from prison as a young man and the chase across three states and two countries that ended in Jack's disappearance for three years.

"And he hasn't been in trouble at all since he got out of prison?"

"Hasn't been caught," Peter growled.

"I am so excited about seeing him. Neal, you are fantastic," Elizabeth cooed. She tilted her head and asked, "You don't suppose he'll want to give a party while he is here?"

"A war party," Peter muttered so low that he expected to get away with it.

Pelted with napkins, Peter raised his hands in surrender. "I will not make Indian jokes. I will not make Indian jokes."

"If you don't behave, you are going to sleep in Neal's room alone," Elizabeth threatened.

"How come you two are always ganging up on me?"

"For your own good," the two loves of his life said together and grinned, tapping knuckles together as they realized it.

OooOooO

In Neal's circle, it would have been perfectly acceptable for the three of them to arrive with Peter in his pivotal position in the middle between Neal and Elizabeth. He missed that sophistication and ease, if not the way love became a graceful but fleeting dance between players who negotiated instead of adored. Kate, the former love of Neal's life, had loved being the center of a ménage a trios, but Neal was often the cream filling in the cookie sandwich.

These days, Neal seldom thought about Kate even as he used his resources to look for her.

Neal had lied to Alex about Kate right after that long ago occasion when Alex walked into an alley and rescued him from two armed men. He had told Alex that he had just met Kate, but really he had known Kate forever or what passed for it in his former life. The first time had been at a foster home, the two of them all of thirteen and playing curious games in back rooms. Later, they seem destined to be together or so Neal had romantically told her. Lying was a habit with Neal, a knee jerk reaction he was working on to please Peter. Alex was not a man of simple truths. Alex had once said to Neal that the only time lying was a sin was when it was done badly.

Neal's thoughts wandered back to Kate from Alex. After the brief stay in the foster home, they met again when Neal was sixteen, working on the school poetry journal, Neal was illustrating, Kate was editing. Kate liked to be in charge.

The first time Neal had sex with another guy, it was Kate who dared him. Kate who laughed at him for being nervous.

The first time that Neal forged a painting, it was for Kate who needed a lawyer, who needed a place to live, who needed, always needed.

The first time Neal had his heart broken; it was Kate who broke it. Kate who ran away with the guy whose love Neal thought they were sharing.

Kate was beautiful. Kate loved him as much as she was capable of love. Neal sometimes had the honesty to admit that he was addicted to Kate's needing him.

When she blew back into his life and talked about wanting to go to Europe, Neal wasn't sure. There was Alex. However, Alex would never love him completely because he was in love with his Agent Mulder. Kate said she loved Neal with all her heart; she would love him forever; she always had.

So Neal had gracefully exited Alex's little nest where Alex was kept by some old man and where he had been equally keeping Neal. Neal had pulled a job, and Peter almost caught him. (And Neal fell a little in love with Peter right then for that frisson of delightful fear)

But he got away and took Kate to Europe where the money somehow did not last, so another job and another.

Kate was homesick which made no sense; she, like Neal, had none. They returned to New York. One great scam after another. Peter closer and closer on his trail. The fascination of the game between Neal and Peter occupied so much of Neal's attention that Kate slapped Neal's face and said he thought more about Peter than about her.

It was not all being chased and arguments with Kate. There were good times. Times when Neal thought his life with Kate was almost perfect.

When Alex found Neal again, he didn't complain about Kate. Of course, Kate was all about Alex, fascinated with his green eyed beauty of face and the darkness of his soul. It was a wonder that Alex never let her know he really didn't like her, merely putting up with her for Neal.

The one real fight Neal had with Alex was over Kate. About a job that Neal pulled which almost got him killed except that Alex had followed him and used a tranquilizer gun on the one guard who was too good a shot. Neal had told Kate it was too risky, and Kate had insisted - wanting to throw a party that people would talk about for years.

It was not like Neal didn't agree when Alex said that Kate was using him and would use him up. That Kate at the core was not Neal at the core. That she would never be satisfied, because her heart was a sucking black hole. However, Neal was in love with Kate; wasn't he?

Despite that traitorous agreement in that seldom used practical side of his brain, Neal retaliated with a comment about Mulder.

There was a moment when Neal felt afraid. The expression on Alex's face was that of a killer. Neal blurted apologies. Alex didn't, just said that he wouldn't have said what he said if it wasn't true.

Alex had left shortly after that with a loving kiss and words of caution. He said his beloved Mulder, an FBI agent who chased the supernatural, needed his help. It was a few weeks after Alex disappeared that Neal was arrested and there was proof at a scene that he was sure he did not leave. Someone tipped Peter. Neal knew that Alex would never hurt him. He didn't think it was his old friend, Moz, which left Kate. And Neal did not want to believe that Kate would betray him. Neal still didn't know the truth about who set him up to be arrested.

When Peter Burke finally arrested Neal, there had been no way out without hurting someone, which Neal would not do.

Which was the slippery road that led here. With Peter as his lover and Peter's wife, Elizabeth, as his closest friend, and Neal was amazingly happy despite the tracer on his ankle.

Strange roads sometimes lead you home.

OooOooO

Jack was in rare form. His voice howling like a lonely coyote at times, soft as Indian tanned buckskin at others. The music was an eclectic mix of Native drums and rap sequences with almost anything in between. Jack owned the stage, putting his audience beneath a spell. He was wild power, barely contained by brown skin. He was Medicine Speaker.

Jack spoke to Neal in words of pain, of confusion about who you are and where you are going, of impatience with pretense and laws that thinly coated and disguised injustice. Neal knew those subjects from the heart outward, and Jack's performance made him want to chew off his own leg to be free of the monitor.

Neal wasn't aware that he had shut his eyes, that he was chewing his lip, that his hands were balled into fists until he felt Peter's touch. Peter's hand over his curled tight fingers, a question in the softness and warmth of contact. Neal looked at Peter and saw the love. Neal hated the monitor on his ankle which restricted his travel to the two miles in New York that surrounded his official residence unless he was with Peter, but Peter helped him bear it. Neal took Peter's hand and held on tight until his muscles no longer tensed to run and his heart stopped pounding.

On the stage, Jack's head was lifted until the length of his throat was exposed; his hands reached upward as if in prayer, but also closed in fists as Neal had been. He prayed, and he shook his fist at the creator at the same time. In the final moment, the end of his performance, he howled. He howled, his body shaking, his black eyes flashing, his body bow tight, his words his arrows launched at the white world he hated without hating the people in it.

The stage went pitch dark. Medicine Speaker was gone when the lights returned.

OooOooO

Out in the lobby after the show, the three of them lingered as they tried to decide where to eat dinner.

"Wow," Elizabeth breathed. "Just wow."

Neal was pleased he had given Elizabeth something she liked. He was so very fond of her, not the least because she loaned him her husband.

Peter hunched his shoulders and scowled. "He's a crook, a talented one maybe."

Neal and Elizabeth exchanged glances. Peter could be so difficult.

"Hey," another voice intruded.

"Mulder?" Peter said, a smile in his voice.

"The same," Mulder greeted. "Your wife?"

"His…Elizabeth," Elizabeth said. "So you're Mulder. Peter told me about you and your Alex."

Mulder looked good. The few times Neal saw him before Alex's reform, Mulder was an oddly handsome man who looked just short of losing his mind. He had been weary, burning from the inside out on his mysterious quest, and turning his rage at the world, but all too often on Alex's skin. Now light danced in the hazel eyes, the dark circles were gone and the lines that had been forming around his lush mouth had eased.

"I'm the one," Mulder replied. He gave Elizabeth his hand, leaning down toward her. The man was tall.

"Where's Alex?" Neal asked.

Peter glared at him a full thirty seconds. Neal ducked his head, hiding a smile. Sometimes, a jealous Peter was a perfect delight.

"Went back stage to talk to Jack," Mulder replied, shoving hands in his elegant suit. "Alex is my partner now."

As if that was news.

Wait. Neal looked at Peter and Peter looked at him, both understanding what Mulder was saying in the same instant.

"You mean he's back in the FBI?" Peter questioned. "How did he manage that?" With a look at Neal as if to say, "Don't even try it."

As if.

Like his friend and informant, Mozzie said about the idea of working for the FBI, Neal wanted to keep his soul. Being Peter's consultant was okay. Neal had no urge to be a real agent.

"Do you really want to know?" Mulder playfully returned.

"No," Peter said. "Some stones…"

Alex came striding into the room as if he owned it. The sea of people parted for him. It may have been that he was almost as tall as Mulder and a striking man. It may have been that if he were a perfume, his name would have been danger. For whatever reason, unless Alex did not want to be seen, all eyes drew to him and few wanted to get in his way.

"I'm going to meet with Jack later. He has some interviews," Alex said.

"What about the ghost shirt? Can you get him to talk?" Mulder asked excitedly.

"Don't know. I'll try for you," Alex said, going to Mulder's side.

Neal heard more than Alex said. That if Mulder asked him to walk through hell and bring him the devil's head that Alex would crawl toward his goal even as flames consumed him. That Alex would burn to ashes if he must, but Mulder would have the devil's head if Alex delivered it with his last breath.

"What's this about a ghost shirt?" Peter asked.

"Want to talk over dinner? Alex is buying."

OooOooO

"I always wanted to go here," Elizabeth gushed. She was looking from man to man, a cat surrounded by so many dishes of cream.

The Russian Samovar restaurant was the place the Russian Tea House once was and vainly aspired to be again. Neal was reminded that he wasn't the only one who could walk into a five star restaurant without a reservation and be seated immediately.

They had a table away from the music since they wanted to talk. Alex was drinking horseradish vodka and his green eyes glowed in eerie counterpoint to the flickering light beneath the samovar in the middle of the table. Mulder leaned back, watching the room, watching Alex, his lover, Mulder's brain beneath the pretty eyes cutting sharp, his intelligence unhidden by the languid gaze.

Mulder lectured, his voice somehow both riveting and nonchalant. "A Paiute Indian called by the white man, Jack Wilson, and by his people, Wovoka, had a vision in which his people could resurrect the buffalo and bring their ancestors home by performing a specific form of the traditional round dance. The religion spread rapidly from tribe to tribe. When it was picked up by the legendary Lakota nations, a leader, probably Chief Kicking Bear, reinterpreted the pacifist message of Wovoka to a more military religion. His followers believed if they danced the ghost dance that the earth would rise up and purify the land, driving the white intruders back over the ocean. The ghost dancers painted symbols on their shirts that were meant to repel bullets and make the wearer invulnerable."

"It didn't work," Alex said, picking up the narrative as if he and Mulder were the same speaker. "Not for the Lakota or the Cheyenne. Ended badly at the Wounded Knee massacre. Men, women, children slaughtered. Blood flowers on white snow."

"Yes, but," Mulder continued after a pause to study his lover's face. "There is a legend that one young warrior believed so utterly and had such power that the shirt he painted worked. That he walked unhurt, glowing in light that melted not only the bullets that would have struck him down but the soldiers who shot them."

"I keep telling Mulder that the warrior might have encountered an Oilien," Alex said. He turned to Peter and said, "The Oiliens are alien life forms that can inhabit a human body and masquerade as that person. I think that the original wearer of the ghost shirt might have had a Rider, one of the alien life forms as a parasite inside them. The light they describe sounds like what the aliens can do when they are wearing you."

What the hell was Alex talking about; Neal didn't want to know. He had a superstitious streak like a lot of talented thieves did. Alex's weird shit scared him.

Mulder muttered, "It's not all about the Grey Aliens. Maybe the Lakota were right, and the shirt wearer was a true believer so the shirt worked for him. He was a Santee Sioux and his name was Medicine Speaker."

"The plot thickens," Peter remarked. "An ancestor or just his name sake?"

"His ancestor," Mulder said. "The story is that Medicine Speaker went to hear Wovoka and that he became persuaded that Walking Bear was wrong and the ghost shirt was not the way of the ghost dance. However, he tried to burn the shirt, and it lay pristine in the flames. He tried to cut it, and the blade deflected. So he finally hid it in a cave in the Black Hills hoping that the power of Paha Sapa would hide the power of the garment. He told no one where the shirt was, not even his sons. His descendent, Jack Medicine Speaker, supposedly found the shirt anyway, used it to escape a trap and walk through a fire storm of bullets to get away safely."

"So Medicine Speaker has it. Seems like he might let you see it since Alex is his friend and all," Peter said.

"I wouldn't ask him if he did have it," Alex said, "But someone took it while he was in prison, and he would like to have it back to return it to where his ancestor put it."

"All I want is to investigate whether the shirt could have all the power that was reported," Mulder said. "What happens after that is beyond my scope."

"Not that I believe one iota of the hog wash you are selling, Mulder," Peter said, "But if Medicine Speaker has the shirt and it did exactly what you say it supposedly does, couldn't he use it to escape from heists without fear of injury? A dangerous thing. I'm glad that it's impossible."

Mulder seemed accustomed to people thinking his ideas were insane. He calmly said, "So you think that Medicine Speaker is going to go after the Anishinaabe Sun bundle on display here?" Mulder said. "It's an entirely different tribe from Jack's tribe, you know. The Anishinaabe were traditional enemies to the Santee and most of the other linguistic groups that made up the three nations, the Lakota, the Nakota, and the Dakota."

"The Nakota, the Lakota, and the Dakota are the tribes we call Sioux," Neal remarked, from his Native American art history class. He had been fascinated at the time with Native American culture and had read a great deal more than the class required. "Anishinaabe being the people we call Chippewa."

Elizabeth, probably feeling a little ignored, said, "Well, if the medicine bundle belongs to the Chippewa; the museum should just give it back."

"It's not that simple," Peter said. "No matter what all those protesters are saying, the German National Museum legitimately collected all of those items, including the Chippewa Medicine bundle."

As an aside to Elizabeth who looked puzzled, Peter explained, having done his usual overly thorough research, "There are clubs in Germany which imitate Native American culture, even dressing in their traditional garb and having mock gatherings like modern Indians have to dance traditional dances and socialize. Historically, the Germans gathered vast amounts of Native artifacts. Some of the best exhibits anywhere of Native American art and culture are in German collections. Native Americans have often asked for sacred items back from the German National Museum, but have always been refused."

"Don't you always say right is right?" Elizabeth pointed out.

"I never say that," Peter argued.

"You said it the night after Neal was sent to prison," Elizabeth affirmed. "When you were up pacing around all night like a caged bear. When you said that you absolutely, in no way, had any regrets in putting Neal where he belonged. Which didn't explain why you couldn't sleep and had to go running off to check on him the very next day."

This was good stuff. Neal leaned forward to better watch Peter's face in the dark atmosphere of the restaurant.

"Because you were already were falling in love with him," Elizabeth clarified.

Neal had mentioned that Mulder and Alex knew about Peter and him, so Elizabeth was not being indiscreet. Despite that, Peter's blush could be seen even in the dim light. He was wordless, but his hands spoke for him, one covering Elizabeth's cute plump digits and the other Neal's artistic and talented fingers.

It was not an uncomfortable silence, but one well broken by the waiter arriving with their food.

Neal had the Shashlik Karski lamb. Alex had the Salmon Coulibiak. Mulder ordered Chicken Tabaka. Peter tried a dish called Midnight Chicken which consisted of chicken breast with a sour cream sauce, richly flavored in garlic, and garnished with carrots and raisins. Elizabeth ordered Ollivier Salad, but tried a bite of everyone's food.

Neal watched Alex stop being a thug long enough to charm the pants off Elizabeth and offer her a bite of his salmon, leaning across the table, holding his fork out, gazing into her eyes until the air sang with tension.

"Alex, have you met my wife, Elizabeth?" Peter said pointedly.

"Charmed," Alex said, in that whisper he sometimes used that made you lean closer and closer until you were mesmerized by eyes that Neal had to admit were as beautiful as his own.

Elizabeth tossed her head, obviously feeling twice as pretty than before Alex had flirted with her. Neal smiled at her. Despite all the reasons it seemed impossible, she was his Elizabeth too, and he loved her, both because she was herself and because she would never make Peter choose between Neal and his marriage. Neal and Elizabeth kept Peter's heart safely in their loving hands.

OooOooO

Peter wasn't even asking Neal where he wanted to go this time. He drove home to where he would have preferred to keep Neal every day if only to deflect Elizabeth's frequently expressed opinion that Neal belonged full time in their house.

"I just have a tiny smidge of work to do," Elizabeth confessed. "Go play with Neal, settle him down. He needs grounding."

Grounding was an interesting way of putting it. Peter kissed his wife and went to his waiting lover.

The first time Peter made love to Neal in his own house he had felt wicked, kinky, and so turned on that he didn't last long enough to satisfy his lover. He had made up for it later the same day. They had come to Peter's house to work and really did mean to work through a late lunch, but Neal had looked as if the stars had landed in his eyes that day, and his skin was made of moonlight. Asking Peter to resist was impossible; he couldn't keep his hands off Neal.

The afternoon trysts became nightly romps. Peter's house had solid walls, and Peter was reasonably sure that Neal couldn't hear him make love to Elizabeth or Elizabeth to Neal. He was also reasonably sure that if he took them both in the same bed, in the same night, that neither would object. They both scared the hell out of him.

Neal let Peter undress him. His face was remote for once where normally it was a stage for his mercurial emotions, both the ones he felt and the ones he wanted the world to see.

Uncomfortable with Neal's stillness, Peter, on his knees before Neal to help him off with his shoes, paused with Neal's foot in the air. "If you don't want to … tonight."

Peter saw Neal catch himself putting on the stage face that Neal knew Peter hated it when it was aimed at him. A small exasperated sigh, and Neal replied, "I was just thinking."

"Not about anything pleasant," Peter replied, pulling off Neal's sock. The other shoe and sock followed. Peter couldn't resist a proprietary stroke of the monitor which kept Neal with him long enough to be caught by a link that was even more unbreakable.

"If you and that aggravating thing would like to be alone together," Neal said, "I would be more than willing to arrange that."

Peter is reasonably sure that he has more of Neal than Neal gave Kate, even if Neal thinks he gave Kate everything. Neal trusts him, and Peter is sure that Neal knew somewhere deep in that magnificent heart of his that Kate was not worthy of trust.

Peter also knows that Neal trusts Alex a great deal, likes him, loves him as a friend, but does not, did not, never will be like he is now for Alex. He will not tremble at Alex's touch as he trembles for Peter. He will not gaze down, so much love in those wild blue eyes. He would never let Alex capture him as thoroughly as Peter has.

"I want you," Neal said, voice shaking.

Taking his mouth away long enough to answer, Peter, amused, tells his lover, "You have me. You are having me."

"No, I want YOU," Neal emphasizes, moving toward the bed.

No more teasing. It was not the night for that after whatever Jack Medicine Speaker did with his passion and words to bring the wild creature out in Neal. And Peter did not mean the sexy demon like feral nature of Neal turned on in bed. Medicine Speaker had called forth something else. Something that would bite and claw if captured. Something that would self destruct the way Neal was doing before Peter caught him.

Peter set to the hard, if delightful work, of making sure that Neal felt no emptiness inside him that needed to be filled with baubles and brightness, charm and chaos. He opened Neal to himself with tongue and touch, with love and kindness, and the passion that surged through him. They had fitted together so well from the first time, but dancers dance better when they know each other's routine. Each time they made love, it was wonderful. Each time it was discovery and a step closer to perfection.

OooOooO

"Come to bed," Mulder urged, amazed that it was him saying it and Alex pacing around the room.

"I still have handcuffs if needed," Mulder pointed out.

Alex grinned a toothy grin and said, "And it's not even my birthday or anything."

Shedding the black leather and black denim that he had worn to meet with Jack Medicine Speaker, Alex folded the clothing in his precise way, the pattern filed away in his agile and retentive brain. One night, Mulder had disarranged one sleeve to see if Alex really noticed. In the morning, Alex had scornfully said, "You just can't leave it alone, can you, Mulder? You moved my jacket."

Sliding naked beneath the covers, Alex moved closer to Mulder. Automatically now, Mulder invited his lover into his arms. Making love to him was so much better than just having sex. He thought he had Alex before, any time he wanted. He just didn't know what he really wanted, this, not just sex. Completeness.

"How was your visit with Jack?"

"Disturbing as always," Alex said. "He doesn't have the shirt."

"Thought you weren't going to try to get it out of him."

"I told him that you wanted to find out the truth about it, and he told me that he would let you look at it as long as you didn't take any pictures or write about it."

"Why is he being so nice to a wasichu, a white guy like me?" Mulder asked, stroking Alex's thick lustrous hair. Mulder had learned a few words in Lakota during several investigations in South Dakota.

Alex replied, "I'd tell you that it's because we are friends, but I don't choose to lie to you anymore. Jack knows that you are very intelligent and resourceful. He wants help finding the ghost shirt."

"He's willing to meet with me?"

"Yeah and Burke too," Alex said. "Wants to persuade Burke that he's not after the bundle."

"Is he?"

"You don't like it when I lie to you."

"The truth," Mulder started.

"The truth, the truth, for that and a shekel you can buy a pie is what my grandmother used to tell me."

After they made love, Alex was in Mulder's arms, "How did you get so good at that?"

Alex sounded like the admiring rookie FBI agent that he had once played to spy on Mulder. It made Mulder open his eyes to look at his lover to assure himself that this was his Alex who had been to hell and back with him. Wanting to see Alex laugh, Mulder said, "My other long term lover had no complaints." He wiggled his hand. "But I don't speak sign language so who knows."

Rewarded with Alex's chuckle, Mulder said, "This part is good too. Lying in bed, laughing together, loving together. Wish it happened sooner."

"A few things got in the way, my greed and ambition, your stubbornness, the end of the world as we know it having to be adverted. Just a few things."

"A few," Mulder agreed.

Alex was sleepy so Mulder closed his eyes, letting his lover rest. To his great surprise, sleep took him too.

OooOooO

When Medicine Speaker said he would meet with Peter, Neal, Mulder, and Alex, Peter was eager to speak with him and cross wits, but he tried to leave Neal at the office. Neal refused and made a point of letting Peter know that he was not going to win the argument.

Looking around, Neal saw that no matter how much money Jack Medicine Speaker spent on his causes, he didn't mind spending a little on himself as well. He was staying at the Hilton in a very nice suite. Neal could appreciate the man's taste and sentiments. Why spend all the time evolving out of the dirt to suffer in mediocrity? Five star all the way. At the very least.

Peter looked around as if doing an appraisal. "It's good to see a man suffer for his cause."

Rolling his eyes, Neal muttered, "Be nice or I'll tell Elizabeth."

"You wouldn't dare," Peter said.

"Would."

Mulder gave them both a skeptical eye.

When they were all seated, paired up appropriately, Jack Medicine Speaker studied them silently with his dark slits of eyes for a few moments. "I always like seeing wasichu like you. Makes me hope you will stop breeding."

Alex and Neal laughed. Mulder and Peter did not.

Giving up on insulting them, Jack indicated the coffee and food on the table. "Be my guest."

Neal poured for all of them, including Jack. There were plenty of places to sit, but he settled on the couch arm so he could lean close to Peter. Never got enough of him. Neal didn't think he ever would.

"When I was young, I didn't believe," Jack said. "Couldn't wait to get off the reserve. Hated the white man and wanted to be one at the same time. I was smart at school - made it worse. Could see it in their eyes, thinking that I would be better off in one of their homes. Would have made me one of their trained monkeys. Don't know what's worse being a smart injun or a dumb one."

Peter stirred uncomfortably. Neal knew that Peter shared more with Jack and him than he was willing to admit. None of them grew up rich. Jack in poverty. Neal in foster care. Peter in a lower middle class home with a father who tried to crush the imagination and life out of him.

Eying Peter, Jack said, "I got heavy mojo medicine, Agent Burke. I can tell you ain't one of the Ivy League types."

"We're not here to discuss me," Peter said.

"Don't be shy," Jack said. "I know about Alex. I know about Neal. Even know about Mulder. Read his books."

Peter said, "I'm walking out of here unless you start telling me something I want to hear."

Mulder's laugh was short and more a sound of frustration than genuine humor. He said, "Mr. Medicine Speaker, I know you started out breaking and entering, tried a bank robbery, but lacked finesse. You went to prison and there you met various other Natives who believed that they should fight for tribal rights. You started to go to the sweat lodge in the pen."

Medicine Speaker said, "And my grandfather came to me in a vision, telling me where to find the ghost shirt. When I got out of prison, I went to the cave and found the shirt. It was like it was made yesterday, soft, supple, white as white buffalo woman."

Jack Medicine Speaker was an artist, an elegant liar like Neal, and a seer of visions, but today, he was telling the truth. Neal knew as he knew a beautiful copy from an age worn original. Peter was looking at him, reading him. Neal nodded to him, letting him know that Neal was sure that Jack wasn't lying. Peter trusted Neal's instincts about lying. Takes one to know one, Neal thought.

Across the room, Alex and Mulder were looking at each other much the same way as if they could read each other's minds.

"So shit happened," Jack said.

Jack paced as if the room was his cell. He was deceptively lean, his body well muscled although slim. He was sharpness, eyes like splinters of night. He burned hot, soul so incandescent that it was consuming his body. His black hair was styled in a fierce Mohawk except for one long thin braid that defiantly hung from the side of his head, scalp lock.

"We took Wounded Knee. We took our anger and our cause to D.C. twice. We got shot at. My friend, Little Joe from Washington State, was killed along with some other good people. We shot back some. They chased us from one end of the continent to the other. Most of us were hiding out in Suquamish Nation in Washington State with out buddy, John and his woman. Someone gave us up."

Neal knew that feeling, being betrayed. Kate, his Kate. He shoved the thought away, not wanting to look too deep into it.

"We took off," Jack said. "Down in Portland, they almost got the big dogs, Leonard and Dennis, but Russ and Ken stalled the cops and helped them get away. The feds were searching everywhere." Jack grinned and added, "There was a big Indian education conference in town anyway. Indians all over the place. The movement mobilized and flooded the place with even more cars full of Indians. Drove you guys nuts, trying to watch us all."

Always moving, Jack paced the room as he spoke about his memories. He said, "I lived to run again. Down in Kansas, I was running from so many cops. Whee ya hey, I was Butch Cassidy in front of the whole damn Bolivian army. But when it should have gone down the way it did for Butch and Sundance, I drove on through bullets thick as rain. When I got out of that car, it was full of holes. No way could I not have been hit, but I was wearing the shirt. After that, I had to keep running. I was down in Oklahoma in a sweat lodge when the shirt disappeared along with my luck. When I was inside the sweat lodge praying; my woman or a friend took the ghost shirt. After that, the cops arrested me. I did my time for the crime of being red. A red hearted man. A red blooded man. When I got out, I had the gift of word, man. I can fight you with the bullets of my song. I can damn well dance back the buffalo."

Peter's sarcastic applause punctuated Jack's words.

OooOooO

After meeting with Medicine Speaker, Peter took Neal to see the Anishinaabe medicine bundle. Mulder and Alex said they had some other business and departed, cloaked in mystery.

Outside the museum, the grounds were thick with protesters who were there to ask for the Anishinaabe medicine bundle to be returned to the tribe. Peter was thorough in his background research when he had a case. He knew that Jack Medicine Speaker was a primary speaker about the need to repatriate Native American sacred objects such as the bundle. Jack was busy elsewhere, but these angry people shared his opinion about the bundle. They wanted it taken off display and were here to let everyone know how they felt.

It was a scene fraught with tension. There was large, well decorated drum set up on the grass outside the museum. Four long haired Indian men beat on the drum and sang in some Native language. An older man, dancing to the drum, caught Peter's eye. The man was light skinned, but had distinct Native American features. He was thick set, but danced well. He wore a white tee shirt, a bandana tied around his salt and pepper hair. Beside the older man, two women danced; they were younger, and looked so much like the man that they must be his daughters. Peter was moved by the scene despite himself.

Still Peter found the drum beats heavy, compelling, threatening. Neal put a hand on Peter's arm. Peter looked at him, a little irritated at being distracted when he watching for danger. It took him a moment to realize that Neal was nervous and looking for reassurance.

As they pressed through the hostile crowd, pamphlets shoved at them, something happened. The old man dancer stumbled and leaned against the gate. One of the uniformed cops overreacted, shoving the man away. He fell. His presumed daughter, big woman, fierce face, shoved right back at the cop.

Hell broke loose.

Cops and protesters struggled. A young woman, who looked black and Indian ran, was thrown down by an officer, pinned down by her hair. Another woman tried to pull the officer away and was picked up bodily by two other uniformed officers. A huge Indian man surrounded by SWAT team members kept them at bay with his massive body and warrior gaze.

Someone threw a bottle barely missing Neal. At that point, Peter showed his ID and strong armed his way into the museum doors, protecting Neal with his body and almost lifting him out of harms way.

Panting, Neal sank back against the wall and said, "I like it when you bring me places, but this was a little too action packed for me."

"You okay?"

"I'm with you, aren't I?"

"That's one hell of a mess out there," Peter said to the detective who came over to check his identification closely. Neal flipped his official consultant for the FBI ID at the detective, standing straighter as he did so although also nearer Peter.

"I don't know what happened. It's been tense, but people were minding their P's and Q's," the detective said, brushing his hand through his thin and graying hair. He was middle aged, getting a bit pot bellied with the years, and had deep worry lines surrounding his eyes.

"An old man stumbled against the gate and an officer shoved him to the sidewalk. I think it was his daughter with him. Looked like him. Went after the cop and it went south from there." Neal explained.

The detective gave Neal a sour look and said, "You saying it was my men at fault."

"No," said Peter, elbowing Neal hard in the side to shut him up. Taking Neal by his arm, not particularly caring if it looked odd, Peter added, "We came to have a look at the Anishinaabe Medicine Bundle. We may as well look. I have a feeling that we will be here for a while."

Sirens, shouting, the occasional crash sounded from outside. Thank God, no guns being fired. Peter had heard the uniformed cops outside had been getting a great deal of training. He had heard that, despite appearances, the protesters were also drilled on how to provoke media response without also inviting lethal violence. They were considered dangerous in part because the group protesting included several generations of veterans from the grizzled Vietnam era survivors to the newest still shell shocked ex soldiers from Iraq. Some of the veterans were trained in manufacturing explosives and all of them knew how to handled firearms. The protest might be peaceful, but the protesters were dangerous.

Peter knew from reading Jack Medicine Speaker's writings that Native Americans always served in disproportionate numbers in war. Peter speculated that the Native men regarded military training as free practice for their own struggles. He was uncomfortable, knowing many FBI agents hated Native Americans, ever since the two agents were killed right after Wounded Knee. One of the leaders of the American Indian Movement was still serving time for that. Peter was not cut of the same cloth as some of his fellow agents. He had too much sympathy for the other side at times although Neal was a special case. He was the only felon that Peter loved.

"He still shouldn't have shoved that old man. The poor guy just lost his balance," Neal said.

"So write him a check," Peter growled.

Neal blinked, turned his eyes away and down, worked his mouth as if Peter had left a bad taste.

Oh, God, the silent treatment. Peter wondered if Elizabeth had been drilling Neal on this technique for reproving obdurate partners. Well, fine, he could get a thought sequence completed without having Neal chattering and distracting him. Peter completed the walk to the medicine bag without Neal dogging his steps. Reverting to a past that now seemed distant, Peter turned around and said, "Caffrey, we are on the job."

Neal caught up and shot Peter another kicked puppy dog look. Peter was sorry, but his sorry button didn't always work.

If it was Elizabeth, his wife, Peter would be sleeping on the couch tonight. Neal could not send him to the couch, but Elizabeth probably would kick Peter out of her bed if he walked into the house with Neal moping like this. Peter decided he had better make peace now.

"Neal?" Peter said.

"Yeah?" Neal answered.

"It's just that cops don't like it when people blame things like that on them. After all, it was the big woman that started the disturbance."

"Shouldn't have shoved her dad." Neal replied.

"True."

Ah ha, that worked. Agree with him. Good plan, Burke, now there are two of them. You will never have a curmudgeon thought in peace again.

"Friends, again?" Peter asked, resisting the urge to lift Neal's chin up from its downward tilt.

Nod. Big blue eyes focused on him, gaze leading him willingly astray. "You ready to work?"

Another nod. Still no words.

"I'm sorry," Peter said.

"Me, too," Neal replied.

Well, that was interesting. Peter put his hands in his pockets, a trait both he and Neal shared to Elizabeth's dismay. Neal echoed him and the two of them proceeded to the business on hand.

OooOooO

The curator wanted to meet with Neal and Peter before they examined the bundle.

"What do you expect to find, Agent Burke?" Jan Guthrie asked. She was dressed expensively. Her job paid well enough and obligated the business professional and money look she sported. Neal was aware of Professor Guthrie. He studied curators as he did fine art. Professor Guthrie frequently made media appearances and she was photogenic enough to make fluff pieces hit the front page news. Neal thought she was not as serious a scholar as some, but she was intelligent and a good fund raiser, which he supposed was also important.

"Nothing," Peter said, glancing at Neal. "I just wanted to see the bundle that Jack Medicine Speaker is so concerned about."

Neal studied the bundle but he didn't know enough to have an informed opinion although he had been reading about Native American art and artifacts since Peter had first mentioned the medicine bundle. He had taken that class on Native American art and artifacts, but his knowledge did not include the technical details that he would have had about a Monet or a Gauguin.

Security he did know. Neal cased the joint, eyes roving, focused on hidden…he tried not to smirk…security monitors. It was acceptable. Could he break in? No doubt. Could Jack Medicine Speaker? More in question. Jack had never discussed whether the rumors about him were true. Jack liked Alex, but didn't trust any white man. As for Neal and Jack, thieves don't necessarily engage in shop talk when they meet. Honor among thieves is a pretty, glittery concept, but Neal had learned it sort of went out with Robin Hood. Jack seemed to feel the same.

"What do you think of the security system, Neal?"

"It's state of the art!" Professor Guthrie said. She looked indignant.

Neal went over the system again. He shook his head, "This is state of art? Pity."

If Peter could look any fonder at Neal, Neal would have melted into a puddle of goo.

"So what do you really think?"

"It's easy, ripe, and luscious." Neal said, almost bouncing for joy at delivering this line.

Peter pulled that face, that sideways partial roll of eyes and twist of the mouth that he used to hide an inappropriate grin.

"And who are you?" Professor Guthrie demanded, stepping into Neal's space. "A security consultant?"

"Exactly," Peter said, before Neal could explain his peculiar role in Peter's professional life. "If Neal Caffrey thinks your museum security system is lax, it is. I'll have him make some notes and e-mail them to you."

Great, more homework, Neal thought, making notes for idiots with degrees when he and Peter could be making love or he and Elizabeth could be shopping. Either one, quite pleasurable.

Things had finally calmed down outside, but Peter walked in front of Neal, big protective macho guy. Kind of nice. It was worth all the less appealing parts of the job, the endless paperwork and the meetings which seemed to stretch to eternity.

OooOooO

Alex stretched his back. He had been bent over his laptop for hours. Mulder had his own going. They had been side by side, at times muttering suggestions to help with the search, but hardly even aware of each other except on that blood deep level they always had shared, in hatred and in love, but never able to break the cord.

"One of these three," Alex said, tapping his screen.

Alex sat back and told Mulder, "Juan Fuentes claims to be an Apache Indian, but is probably the son of a one of his mother's johns who was not remotely Apache as she was residing in Nome, Alaska at the time. Fuentes was informing for the FBI during his entire run with AIM."

Clicking to another picture, Alex pointed to a young woman in a mug shot, her head held upright by a hand holding her by her long hair. "Jen Prairie Chicken Shoe, Kiowa, a genuine true believer in the movement, but none too pleased with Jack. He dumped her for a Lakota woman when they were at an AIM camp in Oklahoma. She might have taken the ghost shirt as revenge. Cut Samson's hair."

Alex continued with the puzzle piece in the mix. He said, "Then there was Makade Makwa. Anishinaabe. Unknown birth place. Unknown birth date. Parentage unknown. Suspect because he left the AIM safe house in Oklahoma at the same time as Jen Prairie Chicken Shoe and the ghost shirt disappeared. Might have taken it for unknown reasons."

"Gee, I didn't know you had an Indian brother," Mulder remarked, leaving his computer to gaze at Alex's. The last suspect's biography was so blank that it did look like Alex's before Mulder's lover had painted a masterpiece of a background for himself. Now, whether Alex's history was more than a cloak of dreams was arguable, but Makade Makwa may as well not have existed.

"If we had his fingerprints, I have a feeling that his name was not Makade Makwa. What about picture recognition?"

"I ran it," Alex said. "Nothing except the few pictures from the hay day of the movement. No one has seen him since."

"What about Fuentes? What is he doing these days?"

"Fuentes got himself a doctor's degree in literature and he's lecturing at the last of the ultra liberal colleges. There's still a hit on him from AIM and protection on him from the FBI. He's still a slime ball, leeching off something he never really was, a big movement honcho."

"And Ms. Prarie Chicken Shoe?"

"Dead," Alex said. "Found frozen in a shallow burial in South Dakota on the Pine Ridge Reservation. Coyotes dug her up and hunters found what was left. If she had the ghost shirt, we are going to have a lot of leg work to track it."

"Do you have any of your unofficial sources that you can put on it?"

"You only love me for my resources," Alex commented, stretching again, his head ending up resting against Mulder's chest, all by accident, of course.

"And your ass," Mulder said back, sounding astoundingly happy. He nuzzled Alex's neck, rubbing his cheek against his hair. "And your neck. Definitely love your neck. Love looking at your eyes, so pretty with those lashes. Do you know I was color blind before they took the tumor from my head? I can see green now. I can see how green your eyes are."

Mulder's voice grew rough with lust and love. It was heaven, this last year. The man he had been becoming, broken, bitter, weary, had been like the living dead, shambling through the wreck of his life. Now Mulder was alive and each day was filled with love, with hope, with partnership and work he loved again.

Alex gave Mulder back everything he lost in the long years of struggle with the aliens and the conspiracy; he gave him back his job as an FBI agent, his beloved files that chronicled supernatural events, and he offered Mulder freedom from the burden of Alex in his life. Alex knew that Mulder would have been content with stopping the invasion. He had expected nothing for himself. Alex made sure he had a job, cut him free rein at said job with a decent budget for his investigations. Alex tried to give him back Scully, Mulder's female partner whom Mulder loved. Scully however had other ideas. Her life was ruined by Mulder's struggles. She wanted back the kid that Mulder had with her and she wanted a peaceful ordinary life. She may have loved Mulder, but not as Alex would always love him, with all of her heart and with her soul if needed. She told Mulder they were finished and Mulder returned to Alex. Mulder said that he was relieved Scully didn't want him; because after all, Mulder wanted Alex more than he could ever love Scully.

Tugging Alex up, Mulder said, "Let's take a break. I want a snack."

"Okay," Alex said, carefully closing his programs. "What do you want?"

As Alex stood, Mulder said, "Manos Arribas."

"Can I be Butch this time if we're playing?"

"No, be good or you'll be Etta Place."

"I'd get to live so that's not all bad," Alex commented.

"You're not a romantic," Mulder complained, tugging Alex's black tee shirt off. He stopped to kiss the join line on Alex's arm where the best of the evil old men had engineered a new arm for him after Alex lost it in Russia.

"No, but I don't have a problem loving you," Alex said.

Hands down cherry pink nipples, slabs of muscle, a little softness in the belly, just enough to pillow Mulder's head when he rested there. Mulder freed Alex from his black denim jeans. Alex had been sock clad so Mulder knelt to remove them. Alex had beautiful feet. There was no part of him that was not well made.

"Just stand there," Mulder commanded. "I need to look at you."

Look he did until he had to touch again. His Alex who completed him, dark twin who had walked beside him into the light. Alex.

OooOooO

Much later, as Alex slept, Mulder remembered when Alex tried to walk out of his life. It was after Scully said she'd had enough. That even without the aliens and conspiracies, she wanted a normal life. Mulder didn't want normal. He was not suited to it. He had arrived back to the apartment where he and Alex had been staying and found him packing.

"I thought you would stay with Scully."

Mulder had surprised Alex which surprised him. Classic Mulder would have watched him pack and possibly kicked his ass going out the door.

This time Mulder had instead grabbed Alex in a breath stealing kiss, had dragged him back to bed like a cave man. It was not the first time he had done that, but the first time, he had followed it with kisses afterwards, with mapping every beautiful place and every scar on Alex's body. The scars that Alex gained fighting by Mulder's side were the loveliest places of all.

When Alex woke from post coital slumber, Mulder had grabbed his hand before he could slink away into the night. "Stay."

"How long?"

"Stay with me forever," Mulder had said. "By my side as if you have always been there and always will."

"You are a nerd, Mulder," Alex said, recognizing the line from a classic Star Trek episode, but there was sun in his voice. "Yeah, I'll stay until you ask me to leave."

"Then you are in for the long haul." Mulder had said.

Since that day, Alex had showered him with gifts. His job at the FBI back, Alex working with him as a consultant until the day that Mulder had said he wished they could be partners again, this time for real. Alex had his badge back in a week. He could have had it any time, but he waited for Mulder to ask.

Life was good. Mulder could not remember more than a few stolen days here and there when it felt like this. College had been decent, away in England, away from Mom and Dad. Those first days of partnership with Scully, a few stray moments with Alex before he left the first time, and, yes, later on, when Alex and he slowly courted in strangeness and anger, in lust and violence, in equal forces of desire and repulsion.

This time with Alex, no more threats to close his X Files down. No disappearing evidence and cancerous attacks on people he loved. Just cases he chose and the money to investigate them as he pleased. Alex's mind, his body, his soul all belonged to Mulder. What more could a man have to ask?

Maybe a tracking device. Mulder kind of liked that tracked device on Neal Caffrey. He wondered if Alex would wear one if he asked nicely.

OooOooO

Peter was in with the boss, pitching a trip to South Dakota to follow Medicine Speaker, who would be lecturing at the University of South Dakota. He was doing a series for Modern American literature and performing in one man shows around the state. There was another exhibit at the South Dakota Museum of Arts. It wasn't sacred items in this case, but old journals that belonged to a Chippewa family. There was a decades old law suit for their return, but the family was poor and unlikely to win. Medicine Speaker was throwing a benefit for the family, but Peter thought he might be contemplating more drastic action.

Meanwhile, Neal was left to poke through Peter's other cases and look for clues. He had a yellow pad on which to write notes, but instead was using it to draw a rough sketch of Lauren and Jones, who were bent in honest labor, reading transcriptions that documented the sad life of one Horace Beasley, who was fencing fake bonds and killing two FBI agents with boredom.

Neal was intent on getting Jones' hair just right and the angle of one thick brow. He nearly fell off his chair as Peter's voice said, from very close to his ear, "Gee, I don't know. Your notes are a bit hard to read."

Eyes closing, Neal recited from memory. "On the McGee forgery case, you should see if you can find a forger named Harlan James. The bonds look like his work to me. Sloppy. Shouldn't have fooled anyone. I'd do a little checking for hidden bank accounts for the bank president in the Liberty Bank fraud case. He's doing that chorus girl, which is so classic I nearly love him for it. I bet she has expensive tastes and with three divorces in his resume, he is short on cash. So how are my notes now, oh my captain?"

"Nice, but I need them in writing to give them to Hughes. You want to stay here or go to South Dakota with me?"

"On the whole, I'd rather be in Philadelphia."

"I'll take that as a yes," Peter said.

"You think I'm easy," Neal complained, bringing his feet down from Peter's desk.

Lowering his voice to a level that made Neal's cock twitch, Peter said, "I know how easy you are. I adore how easy you are."

Peter stood up abruptly as Lauren entered. "Get those notes written and have them printed for me. No embellishments, please. You're not writing Russian novels."

"You have no soul, Peter," Neal complained. He aimed his whine at Lauren and said, "You like my reports, don't you, Lauren?"

"Yeah, purple prose makes my day," Lauren replied. She thudded forms down in front of Peter and said, "Sign where the stickies are. What was life like before Post It notes?"

"Longer," said Peter, sitting down and picking up his pen. "So much longer and less pleasant."

Transcribing the information from his head to the computer wasn't hard. Neal settled down. He played to the audience when he pretended to be easily bored, but a guy who had to duplicate the exact whirls on the decorative edge of a stock better be capable of concentration.

"Hey, Neal, can I have this sketch? I like it. You really pegged Jones," Lauren asked.

"Hang onto it," Peter said. "A genuine Caffrey might be worth something one of these days."

Unaccustomed heat lit on Neal's cheeks. Peter's love blinded eyes found Neal's original art as good as his copies, better even. He kept saying that Neal was going to be famous as an artist. Maybe. Neal couldn't see himself walking away from Peter after four years to pursue art seriously, but love was inspiring him more and more every day. In every idle moment, he seemed to be creating, a sketch, a painting, watercolors, oils, an avalanche of art. Neal wanted to stay with Peter, not only in private life, but here. Peter's boss, Reese Hughes, better be willing to pay him real wages though once Neal was free. Neal might be easy, at least for Peter, but he was not cheap.

Neal had already painted and sketched Peter several times, but his favorite was not the nude oil painting that he hid in his wardrobe. His favorite was a little pencil drawing he had done in the office. He had been watching Peter watching him, and somehow caught that gentle, proud, warm gaze with which Peter so often anointed him. When Neal was alone at night, he would take the sketch out and look at it.

"Elizabeth is here," Jones announced, his voice very warm. Jones had a thing for Peter's wife.

"Hi, honey, you too, Peter," Elizabeth chirped. "Peter, lunch?"

"Oh, I have another meeting with Hughes. Neal, done with those notes?"

"Yes," Neal said, gazing hopefully at Elizabeth.

Neal was not disappointed. Elizabeth announced, "I'm taking Neal then. Come Neal."

"Your wish," Neal said, executing such a pretty bow that he wished there had been a mirror in which to watch himself.

"And I want his opinion on a dress, so we'll be late," Elizabeth said.

As they exited, Neal heard Jones ask, "You let him take your wife to lunch?"

"She's taking him. Jones, there are unstoppable forces: nature, Elizabeth, and Neal, in that order of magnitude. And I might be given nature too much credit."

Elizabeth's trill of laughter followed them out of the room.

OooOooO

Elizabeth loved the classics, so it was 202's for lunch. "So you and Peter might be going out of town?"

"Looks like," Neal said. He ordered a petit four for dessert.

"Mr. Medicine Speaker is so talented," Elizabeth said, slightly raising her water glass for a refill. "Why does Peter suspect him?"

Watching a pair of pretty girls, model wannabees, Neal was distracted until Elizabeth tapped him with her drink menu. "Getting tired of Peter?"

"I'm just looking," Neal complained. He said, "A guy can look. Everyone does. Except Peter, he only has eyes for you, and maybe me."

"I thought Satchmo, was loyal," Elizabeth said. "And 'maybe me' is unbecomingly modest of you. He adores you. I adore you. Satchmo adores you. If Peter worked for some less restrictive business, we could all live together. It would be such fun."

Neal could only smile at Elizabeth. Maybe someday. Right now it would kill Peter's career, and Peter's job was the fourth member of a three way relationship.

Not that Elizabeth and Neal slept together, but they had a relationship which, if not separate from Peter, at least was one of mutual affection and possibly growing into platonic love.

"Now about that dress," Neal prompted. "Peter loves me, but I still have to work."

"It's for Sandra's opening," Elizabeth said. "I know that Sandra is wearing green so I wanted something complementary. There's this pearl gray number, but there's a royal blue one too. I need someone with an artist's eyes."

"My eyes are all yours."

OooOooO

After lunch, Neal felt like a nap, but he knew he couldn't get away with that. Peter drove him, possibly harder since becoming his lover. Neal theorized it was that Peter wanted to make him proud. The funny thing was that Neal did want Peter to take pride in how good an agent Neal was, even if he was really just a consultant, an unwilling consultant who had bargained free of prison only to become captive to his heart and Peter.

Peter occasionally let his guard down; for instance, there was that nooner they had last week. Now that was spectacular. Although not taking it easy. Taking it to explosive levels more like it.

Putting a stop to the direction of Neal's thoughts (straight to the gutter), Peter said, "Neal, can you go pull the old files on Medicine Speaker from his movement days? I want to see who was in the prison with him besides the ones we already know about."

Neal Caffrey. File clerk. Fine.

It has become a routine, being sent to pull files. Neal had lunch with Diane, Peter's old probationary agent, now graduated to full agent status. She was back in town a few days ago to testify on a case. Diane said, when Neal had mentioned the files, "It's traditional, Neal. It's hazing. Agents always do it to probies and junior agents. Like the coffee runs. You just keep a stiff upper lip and utter an occasional 'thank you, sir, may I have another?'"

"Kinky," Neal observed.

Diane just laughed.

The files were interesting and Neal forgot what he was doing, plopped down on the low table in the room with folders heaped around him. He was still reading when Peter came down looking for him.

"You forget what you came for?"

"I have all the notes," Neal said, pointing to his head.

Peter bent down to help Neal gather up the records. Their eyes met and heat passed between them. It was so tempting, but it would never happen here.

"My travel request was approved. We'll be flying out tomorrow. I'm going to spend the night with Elizabeth. Because, you know."

Neal knew, because Peter and he would be together, all night long for at least a week and he couldn't hide his smile. "Kiss Elizabeth for me."

Sometimes, Neal was jealous of Elizabeth, but it was not that he hated sharing Peter. It was how seldom he and Peter had whole nights together. So no matter how butt ugly South Dakota was in the winter, it would be like spring to Neal as long as he had Peter with him.

"I let Alex upgrade our lodgings. Hughes won't care as long as it doesn't come out of his budget."

"I love Alex," Neal said. "They going too…after that ghost shirt?"

"Ahead of us," Peter said. He extended his hand, helping Neal to his feet.

Neal assumed that if others saw that they would think that Neal was somewhat stiff from sitting too still for a long time as he read the files. Neal knew it was just an excuse for Peter to touch him here at work. Neal held the hand a bit longer than he should in this environment.

"Can you still give me a ride home?"

"Always," Peter said, with a totality of affection that just floored Neal. One innocent word, and it was a love song.

Always. A life sentence. No parole. Neal wanted it. He was absurdly happy and he twirled as he went out the door, unable to keep it inside himself.

That way he could catch Peter's appreciative gaze and fond smile. Peter was love.

OooOooO

Peter had to buy Neal a new coat. Neal had nothing suitable for South Dakota in November. Maybe Peter did have to talk to Hughes about a stipend, something with which a reasonable man could live, but which would still be the lesson Peter still wanted his lover to know, that you have to work for what you get.

All in all though, Peter had some sympathy for Neal's mistress-keeping bank president. Keeping a mistress cost money. Especially when your 'mistress' thought anything less than designer clothes were rags.

Having picked Neal up early enough to shop, even to ship Elizabeth or Neal style which was the same all out, take the no prisoners type of foray, Peter sat as Neal turned around in front of the mirror, frowning just a little as he tried to catch all views at once.

The sales clerk said, "Perhaps the mohair with the little thread of cobalt running through it to match Monsieur's lovely blue eyes?"

The most expensive of the three coats to which Neal had narrowed his choice. Great. Peter could feel the credit card getting heavy in his pocket with more debt.

But the blue threads did catch Neal's already sapphire eyes. "The blue," Peter agreed.

"Beauty needs worthy display. You are a lucky man, Monsieur."

"I love it, and it's so warm. Thank you, Peter," Neal said, embracing Peter.

"Hey, remember, no PDA," Peter reminded. He didn't think any agents shopped at this exclusive men's shop but they could not take chances. Not for three and a half more years. Peter was already determined that when Neal's sentence was done, so was the farce.

"You can thank me tonight," Peter added.

Blue eyes even wider. Neal said, "Oh, I will. Repeatedly."

The pain of signing the credit slip hurt a little less with the thought of Neal in his arms tonight. Peter considered seeing if Krycek could get the coat reimbursed as a travel expense, but decided that was unethical. Damn.

"I could have thought of other ways to keep you warm," Peter said.

"Keep'em in mind. I get cold a lot," Neal said, with a sly look.

OooOooO

Peter spent most of the flight reading through the material on Medicine Speaker. Neal flirted with the flight attendant and then fell asleep. Peter tucked his coat around his lover, not caring what it looked like.

Neal's thigh touching his, Peter was content. Funny, it was the smart ones that he loved to chase, had to catch, but it was the smart ones he hated to imprison. If he had the talents his favorite prey had, Peter didn't think he would ever turn to crime. Of course, there was reform, but, sideways glance at sweetly sleeping Neal… personal rehabilitation was a full time job when you are dedicated to the salvation of one Neal Caffrey.

Peter wanted to catch Jack Medicine Speaker. It worried him that Neal discounted the possibility of harm from the Indian. Yes, Medicine Speaker was talented. He believed in his cause and that was dangerous. Looking at Medicine Speaker's jacket, Peter could read between the lines. Although never charged with more than a second degree assault, Medicine Speaker was suspected of much more violent crimes.

Peter was much too young to have personally experienced the time in which Medicine Speaker came to prominence, but there were still a few FBI agents around in high ranking positions who had been young in 1973 and the turbulent years that followed until AIM had gradually imploded on itself with internal strife. They spoke of the extreme violence of the movement, of war conditions in Indian country.

Despite the hatred, there was still a great deal of reluctant respect in the voices of those FBI elders. It was an epic struggle with larger than life players. From Washington State where tiny tribes wrested back fishing rights with a cost of blood and tears to the bitter cold and nuclear heat of South Dakota, American Indians had proved they were willing to live and die for their culture. They were warriors.

Medicine Speaker had been young when it started. He had lived in brief moments between prison time and confrontations. He had loved and lost a wife and family in a car accident he still said was rigged by United States Counter Intelligence. Sadly, Peter knew enough about the times to suspect Jack might be right.

Peter was an odd duck. His work was most often about solving puzzles. Not that he didn't believe in justice, but he had a strange empathy with his quarry, taken to the extreme with Neal Caffrey, but present with almost all of the men and women he chased.

Medicine Speaker was someone Peter understood. He wished Medicine Speaker would stick to his talent to raise money for his cause.

All that religious stuff…

Funny, Peter was raised with a surfeit of Catholic teachings. He liked the music, the art, but not the belief system. Medicine Speaker was extremely bright. Peter took another peek at the IQ test results in the folder as if he was looking at porn on the sly. It was sky high. Neal Caffrey high.

So why would someone that smart get all hung up on religion. It didn't fit, not with Medicine Speaker's rough shod beginnings, not with his early history of breaking and entry, attempted bank robbery, and bar fights. Prison…yeah, inmates get religion, but it usually only lasts as long as walking out the door of the prison. Medicine Speaker was still a true believer, willing to be put in a cage again to rescue spiritual items from museums.

Neal stirred, a nightmare. Peter touched Neal's hand beneath the coat and Neal quieted. Yeah, Peter believed in something. He believed in Neal, in Elizabeth, and true blue love. That was his religion.

Closing his eyes, Peter rested and tried to let Medicine Speaker out of his mind for a few moments. Soon enough, soon enough, Peter would be hunting again.

OooOooO

"Hey, Mulder," Alex said, peeking around the corner of the bathroom. "Want to shave me?"

"Yes," Mulder answered. He loved doing it. He loved lathering that shaving cream over Alex's stubble covered chin. He liked the way Alex lifted his neck, baring it as if offering himself in sacrifice. He loved the way Alex closed his eyes, the long lashes trembling over the perfect edges of his cheeks. He loved scraping down, removing stubble and cream, revealing the soft skin beneath. He loved gently touching Alex as he held his chin to get the tender places near that beloved mouth.

The first time Mulder shaved Alex was before Alex got his arm back. It was right here in South Dakota. Mulder had stumbled upon one of the Grey Nymphs, the savage reptilian form of the aliens. He had been unarmed, lost his gun when he slipped down a slope, and had tried to fight the thing off with a hunk of rock. Alex had appeared from nowhere with a stiletto and darted in and out of the creature's range until he managed to stab the creature at the base of its neck. The nymph's dying throes had injured Alex's only hand and Mulder had to take care of him.

It was one of the few times before they found each other that Mulder had been gentle. What else could he do when faced with Alex's helpless beauty? When Alex had been injured saving him.

So Alex had to be bathed, dressed, shaved, and helped to the toilet to his humiliation. Mulder had cringed at bathroom chores until he saw how embarrassed Alex was. After that, Mulder had recounted ribald tales of fetish behavior with scat and water play when he had to help Alex.

However, shaving Alex had made Mulder come undone. Alex turned him on anyway, but somehow the way Alex was so vulnerable to him, all of his life in Mulder's hands. Maybe it was the trust that it took for Alex to let him to it, but by the time Mulder rinsed the shaving cream from Alex's face, both of them was hard.

Mulder still shivered when he remembered Alex's words that morning. "Will you make love to me?

Not screw me. Make love to me. Mulder's breath caught as he remembered.

Washing the last traces of the shaving cream away, Mulder stroked Alex's face.

"Make love to me, Mulder."

Mulder knew that Alex had been remembering too.

"There's no moment, no place, no situation in which I am not making love to you," Mulder said, leaning down to kiss Alex. "Come here. Come to our bed."

The sheets were still warm and smelled of them, of Alex's expensive cologne, Mulder's favorite soap, and the two of them, love and lust entwined. Alex tossed the towel down, smirked and said, "To save the sheets."

"Sheets are goners," Mulder said, "You ripped a hole in them last night when I was teasing you."

"That's what happens when you tease tigers," Alex said.

Mulder's laughter rippling along Alex's collar bone. He had a thing for that too as well as Alex's neck. "You think you're a tiger? You're my pussy cat."

"Don't care what I am as long as I am yours."

Oh God, too much. Honest Alex devastates Mulder.

Mulder's kisses drag down Alex's chest, stop to taste and suckle at his already erect nipples. Alex writhes, tangles his hand, the one not gripping the already sundered sheets, in Mulder's hair. He pulls hard to the edge of pain and it's good. It's so damned good. Mulder slides lower and Alex's grip eases, his fingers petting instead of pulling.

Unable to resist a look up at Alex's glowing eyes and the way his mouth, the pretty, pretty mouth he always loved to kiss until it was blood red and swollen, is open as Alex gasps. Mulder turns all of his attention to Alex's cock. He wants, he needs to feel Alex trembling, to feel him lose it, his hips pumping. He has to feel his lover surrender totally to him.

Mulder pulls back, leaving Alex shaking with thwarted desire. Mulder kneels between his lover's legs; Alex assumes and starts to lift to open for him.

"No," Mulder chided. "Not like this."

Watching Alex's expression, Mulder finds the lube and preps himself. This was the last part of him he gave to Alex, some reluctance to let his lover inside. Alex never asked with words, never reproached and that is why Mulder had to give it, had to let the last barrier between them be breeched. Mulder smiles at his own thoughts. Breeched, indeed, and breeched again and again.

His fingers stretching inside himself, turning, making a path for Alex into his body, into his heart.

Ready, Mulder hesitates. Alex said, "On top, please. Top me from the bottom, Mulder. Ride me."

Not the easy way, never the uncomplicated road for them. Mulder concentrates as he guides himself over Alex. He never realized what he was missing. He had never liked this with anyone else. It was just reciprocating and being his own man, capable of doing anything he pleased even when it did not particularly please. The first time Mulder did this with Alex, he had come so hard that it took long moments to catch his breath. Forget stars. He saw infinity as he came.

Alex's eyes are open as Mulder rides him. Mulder meets the gaze as he moves, as he impales himself, spikes of pleasure, his nerves firing, so near the edge. He is glad when Alex's hands steady him, glad when he can stroke himself, his slick cock so hard. He arches, loses himself as he comes, his jism shooting all over Alex. Alex claimed again releases inside Mulder. Limbs tangle, they surrender to post coital sleep.

OooOooO

Peter can tell that it's Alex's car. It's an Aston Martin. It's black and sleek. There is a back seat, but it's the size of a swing. The chrome is so bright that Peter has to squint. The seats would make PETA weep for the black leather of them.

Neal's look of pure unadulterated lust makes Peter jealous of the vehicle. Neal's hands stroke the sleek sides the way he touches Peter and Peter doesn't care for that at all.

A moan of appreciation and Neal asks, "Can I drive it, Alex, can I?"

"He doesn't have a license," Peter points out.

Alex smiled indulgently and flipped a hand tooled wallet at Neal. Neal grinned a brat's smirk, and showed Peter a South Dakota driver's license with his picture. "See how he loves me."

"By getting that cute ass thrown back in jail?"

"I would never give Neal a fake license," Alex said.

"How would you get a real one for him?"

Alex merely smiled.

Mulder patted Peter's shoulder and said, "He grows on you."

"Uh huh, like canker on a bruised fruit." Peter said as Neal slid into the driver's seat.

Mulder and Alex poured themselves into the meager back seat despite the fact that they had to be almost on top of each other to do it. Peter glanced back and changed that thought. It was not despite; they liked it that way.

"We're not taking this thing out on those reservation roads," Peter said.

"No, Alex has a hummer and a four wheel drive vehicle too," Mulder said, his words and laugh smothered in his lover's neck.

"Oh, god," Neal sang out. "Puns. Not the puns."

As Neal drove, much too fast, Peter no longer begrudged the car. Neal was happy. He was grinning from ear to ear and Peter understood why Alex indulged him. Peter leaned back and enjoyed the ride, his hand on Neal's knee, fingers brushing the hard on that Neal was sporting.

'Ha, car, you may have given that to Neal, but I'm the one that's going to reap the benefits.' Peter thought.

The airport yielded quickly to bleak surroundings, no trees, a few acres of sagging fences, landscape nothing but dirty snow and aging bill boards. It was a hard land and Peter wondered what drove people to settle here. He can understand the Indians. When they lived here, it was in pursuit of the buffalo who thundered these plains like an ocean of bovine flesh. He couldn't get why whites wanted this hard country enough to kill for it. But Peter does not get violence. Sure, he was an FBI agent and he even enjoyed practicing with his gun, but if there was a world where he could do without its protection, he would be happy to toss it.

That was not this world. Especially not this one where every other pick up truck still has a gun rack across the back.

OooOooO

The city was a sore spot on the horizon. There was no grace to its design. Its buildings were plainly designed and weathered with the fury of South Dakota's ferocious winters that brought to mind the fimbul winter of Nordic myth, the never ending final winter that ended the world. Neal shivered even though the car was warm.

"Why would anyone want to live here?"

"Crazy Norwegians, Psheks, Nemchura," Alex snarled out.

"Psheks? Nemchura?" Peter asked.

"Poles and Germans," Mulder explained. "My charming lover was raised in part by a rude old Russian grandmother."

"Hey, my Babushka was a saint," Alex said. "Mean shot with an AK-47 too."

Neal usually was a good driver, but Alex's comment was a distraction. He had glanced in the mirror to see if his friend was joking and almost hit a fish tailing sedan.

"Watch the road," Peter gloated, taking advantage of the moment. Neal was quite the back seat driver when Peter drove. A little payback was a good thing.

OooOooO

The hotel was not impressive, but it was clean and the rooms were huge. Commercial spaces were sold by the acre instead of the foot in South Dakota.

Peter and Neal's room was right next to Mulder and Krycek's. It was huge with two queen beds. They would only use one, but they would disarray the other each night. They had to be cautious for three years, six months, two weeks, and one day. Not that Peter was counting.

Neal was already unpacking, shaking out his fine dress shirts, stroking his thin black ties smooth, laying his socks and underwear in drawers. Peter enjoyed watching him even when it was something this mundane. Neal hung his suits in the closet and started on Peter's suitcase although now he occasionally sighed with impatience at Peter's plebian tastes. Peter doesn't care. If El hasn't reformed him after ten years of marriage, Neal was not likely to have much impact in these few precious months.

"So how is your search for the Ghost Shirt going?" Peter asked Alex. He wanted to see this item himself although he did not believe it was anything more than a sad artifact of despairing people's willingness to believe in anything that would bring them hope.

"Mulder thinks that the person who took it might have hid it in the black hills," Alex said. "There are some caves outside of town. We're going to look there. Medicine Speaker will be with us. You want to tag along?"

Peter has spelunked once or twice in college. He knows Neal was an expert on urban climbing and tunnel diving; cat burglars tend to be. Peter never caught him for that, but he still knew that Neal was familiar with the skills. They would make do in the caves. It would be a good chance to observe Medicine Speaker. Peter said, "Sure. We're going to need some climbing gear."

"I have enough. Come on, Neal, we'll go get you some climbing boots."

Neal followed Alex out of the room eagerly, too easily. Peter frowned. He trusted Neal, but he knew there was a powerful bond between Alex and him.

Peter hated shopping, but he plunged after the two, saying, and said, "Wait up. I need climbing boots too."

OooOooO

Preparing for the cave diving, Peter, as usual, had a difficult time keeping his eyes off Neal. Dressed as an Alex clone in black sweater, thick denim jeans and the most stylish climbing boots that the town could muster, Neal could not master the panther like look of his former lover. He looked charming and debonair.

Alex had a black box, and he opened it. There were ampoules and needles within. He looked at Peter and Neal, stating, "You have to trust me on this. This is a vaccine. There are things that may lurk in those caves that you do not want to meet. There is a disease that is semi-sentient. It masquerades as black oil. Mulder and I have taken care of the source, but the remaining pockets of infection are still dangerous. This inoculation will keep you from being infected."

Backing away as if Alex was waving a gun in his face, Peter said, "Look, I've gone along with most of your crazy games, but I am not letting you shoot some unknown substance in my veins."

Neal was already tugging up his sleeves.

"It's a deep muscle injection. Shoulder muscles are best," Alex said.

Alex's mouth worked and he looked over at his lover, who gave him a slow nod and a look of sympathy. When Alex was changing, Peter saw a deep scar just below the shoulder joint. It circled the entire arm and Peter can not guess the nature of an injury that would leave a mark like that. It must have been a very traumatic injury, but the arm appeared to have no impairment now.

Peeling off his shirt, Neal awaited the needle, his head turned away. It is a beautiful pose, displaying the long swan neck, the cameo of elegant profile.

"That," Neal remarked after a grunt of pain, "Deserves more than a sticker or a lollipop."

"I'll give you champagne when we come back," Alex said.

"From here?" Neal said. "Probably be indistinguishable from horse piss."

"I brought a very nice Louis Roederer with me. Would that do?"

"I suppose," Neal replied.

"At $279.00 a bottle, it should," Mulder added from the sidelines.

"Peter?" Alex asked.

"I told you what I thought," Peter said. "Neal may let you put anything in him you want, but I'm not Neal." His words reeked of jealousy and he was ashamed of himself.

"Then you stay behind," Mulder said.

"Fine. Neal, you are not going without me."

"No tracking bracelet here," Neal said. "I am going. Just let Alex vaccinate you. He has proved to you that he would never let anything hurt me. And you are part of me, so he won't hurt you either."

Peter's hands were taking off his jacket without permission from his brain. He could not stop Neal, and he could not allow Neal to enter danger without Peter to save him if things got hairy. And they would. Neal has a karma that seems to flirt with danger as he flirted happily with the world.

OooOooO

When they stopped to get Medicine Speaker, the man vibrated with tension. He said, "Earlier today, when Alex and me were taking a walk around town and thinking, some cowboys tried to drag a Lakota girl into a pick up. Alex stopped them with his mojo, but the white man is unhappy. There are plenty of rumors going around about why two new FBI agents are here. Everyone is stirred up."

"We are white," Peter reminded. "Alex is white."

"Alex is heyoka," Medicine Speaker said. "Heyoka can make themselves appear to be anything they want."

"What is Heyoka?" Neal asked.

Mulder is a font of never ending obscure knowledge. If he doesn't know it, his partner does. "Heyoka are clown spirits. He's calling Alex a clown."

"I am calling Alex what he is, trickster, good medicine with a twist of bad. Heyoka has two faces, one smiles, one weeps. Heavy medicine. Kissed by a thunderbird at birth."

Neal had his lips open as if for a kiss. He asked, "Jack, would you mind if I did some art with Alex as Heyoka?"

"Can I stop you?" Jack asked.

"Um," Neal hesitated.

"Paint it, brother," Medicine Speaker said. "Just do it."

Neal begged indulgence from unlikely sources. Even a raging fanatic like Medicine Speaker could not resist him.

When they went outside, it was snowing, swirling down like stars falling on the night plain. They piled into the hummer and started up the increasingly narrow road to the Black Hills.

Peter thought that the snow was pretty here. It came down gray as ash in New York. Now that they were away from the town, Peter saw the beauty of the black hills. He was aware of the conflicts around this place, the lure of gold and the living symbol it represented to the Lakota. He still found it a place of great loveliness.

But soon they left the gleaming white hills to enter the bowels of the earth.

The first cave washed out, unless you counted the pretty geode that Neal found and had to show everyone before adding it to his backpack. The thunder egg was lovely. It consisted of an outer dull shell of ordinary rock, but it was hollow within. Inside there were white quartz crystals with a lovely blue vein in the middle that does resemble a bird with outstretched wings. The blue was chalcedony. Neal's eyes were bluer and he was more of a hidden treasure than the geode held.

The next two caves were very narrow and ended in nothing but fissures. They sat consulting maps which seem inadequate, given what Peter has already seen of the caves. There are networks like veins of stone in this mother hill and Paha Sapa, the Lakota name for the Black Hills, has womb like caves within.

"There was a spider whose web was stone. She spun herself a nest in the black hills and sometimes she catches men."

Medicine Speaker grinned as Mulder shuddered. Mulder remarked, "I hate spiders."

"Don't worry. I'd swat her before she got her mandibles on you. Your sweet juices inside that pretty skin all belong to me," Alex said to his lover.

Good god, did Peter sound that smarmy when he talked to Neal? He vowed to listen to himself before he was as head over heels as Alex. He then decided it was already too late. He was hopelessly devoted to Neal.

The last cave they could explore tonight was deep. Peter felt the cold seeping through the layers of silk thermal underwear and tough neoprene outerwear. Neal was shivering. He had very little body fat, and he felt the cold. The corridor narrowed and there was sudden movement. Bats. Peter hated bats.

Neal pulled the knit cap that Alex forced on him lower. "You want to go back?" Peter asked hopefully.

"No, I'm okay," Neal replied.

Something skittered in dark. More bats, Peter thought and cast slowly around with his flash light. Nothing.

Krycek and Mulder were in the lead. They moved well together, great team work. The flashlights they carry arced steadily and smoothly. Both were packing, not only guns, but some sort of sharp, narrow knifes.

They were deep within the earth. Even Medicine Speaker looked nervous, and he had been here before.

The scrabbling sound intensified. There was a screech and something hideous was coming at them. Peter pulled his gun, and slammed Neal into the wall to protect him with his own body. Medicine Speaker wielded the biggest damn knife Peter had ever seen - his white teeth bared, wolf like.

There were two of the creatures, hunched, hump backed raptors with gray skins. They were not as big as T-Rex; they were about the same size as a small man, but they were fast and fierce. They had thick claws and sharp teeth which dripped thick ropes of drool. Mulder and Krycek fired in unison and managed to drop one. Peter shot the other but it seemed impervious to his bullets. There was no room for Peter to get away. Medicine Speaker angled in back of the creature; he whooped and side stepped. He threw himself on the creature, and stabbed it deeply just under the heavy base of its skull. It shrieked in an ultra sonic, blood curdling pitch. It thrashed around and died.

When Peter could breathe again, he saw Krycek wiping off his stiletto. Mulder stepped over to the one Medicine Speaker killed, and even though the creature looked dead, he worked his own knife around the base of the head where Medicine Speaker stabbed it.

"With either the grey aliens or these nymphs, you always make sure that the brain stem is totally destroyed. Don't breathe the fumes that erupt from an injured alien," Mulder said as calmly as if teaching a rookie how to target shoot.

"So is that what the shots were about? In case one of these things bit us?"

"No, there's a larvae form too," Mulder said, cheerfully.

They continued deeper.

OooOooO

There was a chamber below. Peter stepped to the side to look into a crevice he spotted and slipped on something. Catching himself on the rock, his hand encountered something slimy and viscous. It moved. It moved along his skin as if seeking entry. He yelled, shaking his hand in panic.

Neal quickly was by Peter's side and tried to wipe the oily stuff from Peter's hand. Drops skittered over Neal's pale skin and Peter saw it seeping into his lover's pores just as he felt it penetrate his epidermis. As soon as it entered Peter's skin, it roiled back out. It turned gray and nacreous. Thank god, it reacted to Neal's flesh in the same way.

Both Peter and Neal spent the next several minutes trying to scrape every trace of the stuff from their skins. Peter knew that the oil was not earthly. He can not wrap his rational, matter of fact mind around this, but his nerves were crawling with the certainty.

"That's the black oil, and you are lucky I vaccinated you," Alex said.

"I am off caves for life," Neal said.

OooOooO

They ventured further, and Mulder's flash light caught a horrific sight. There were two corpses, Indians by their features. The skin was too blackened to give any clue to race, but they had the typical features: large noses, strong cheekbones, heavy large heads, and epicanthic folds around the eyes. Mid-body, they looked like something exploded outward. Neal took one step too many forward, caught a good look, backpedaled, and looked away.

"What is this?" Peter crouched and played his flashlight over one of the corpses. It wasn't an explosion. The blood and gore was ragged, but not scattered. The tattered remains of a plaid shirt were ribbons, gore soaked, blossoming red around the torso. The expression on the face was distorted, the mouth gaping with a final long, agonized scream. Each hand was clawed tightly, so rigidly clamped that even rigor coming and going did not release them.

"Looks like something clawed out of them," Peter remarked. He leaned closer, his nose twitching. "Smells like they were there, alive, but not moving a long time. Clothing soiled, soaked with urine and feces."

"Like I needed to know that," Neal said from his safe distance with his back turned.

"I'll have a clean up unit pick them up," Alex said.

"What brought them here?" Peter asked. He looked beyond the corpses. There was a wooden box, decorated with Plains Indian style decorations of running buffalo and horses. It was big enough to have held the ghost shirt, but the box was empty.

Medicine Speaker said, "Those two work for the tribal chair. Goons. Chicken Charlie and Bob LaPlante. That box is mine. I made it myself to keep the shirt in. Don't know how the shirt came here though."

"Let's get out of here," Mulder said. "I have had enough of this for two lifetimes." He waves his hand at the bodies.

OooOooO

The next morning, Neal and Peter observed a demonstration in front of the museum which housed the journals.

One of the speakers was a thick bodied woman with long braids, stretching down to her waist and past. She held a hand that was covered with scars from some accident up in her anger. "My great grand father spoke seventeen languages. He wrote in French and English. His son spoke seven languages before they sent him to boarding school where they burned his tongue when he spoke his Native language. When he went home, he would not let his daughter, my mother, speak anything but English. Those are his writing in there. He was Metis. He was Anishinaabe. He was not white. He left his journals to us, his family, and the wicked old priest took them and gave them to the museum. He was a thief, and we want them back."

Medicine Speaker was next and his passion enflamed the crowd. "Take it back, my brothers. Take it back, my sisters. Take what is yours. Take what is ours. You can dance back the buffalo. You can call the salmon to fill the rivers. The earth herself will rise to embrace our cause."

Still, all would have remained peaceful, but cars screeched to a halt. Men holding baseball bats and rifles poured out. They waded into the peaceful demonstration and attacked at random. Men, women, young, old. The scene was chaotic.

Peter grabbed Medicine Speaker and got him out of the crowd, acting on an oddly protective urge. A moment later, reservation cops waded in, clubbing everyone and arresting the ones who were still on their feet, which were not as many as Peter's training would lead him to expect. This was less of a police operation and more of a blood bath.

Before Peter was aware that Neal was not at his side, his lover was gone. Neal, both hands straining against superior strength, was holding off a rifle butt that was raised high over a slip of a girl with doe eyes and yards of black hair. Oh, Neal could always spot a fragile flower.

The guy looked surprised. Neal was stronger than he looked. He worked out, and he was very active. When he was on the wrong side of the law, he had to climb in and out of windows, prance along ledges, dangle from ropes. It was a thorough exercise program.

Peter spotted a large guy with a military crew cut coming up behind Neal with a baseball bat. Peter abandoned Medicine Speaker, jumped in front of Neal and flashed his badge. "FBI!"

The guy did not stop. He just kept coming until Alex sleeked out of nowhere and shot him. Peter opened his mouth, shocked, and Alex snarled, "It's a sleep dart gun. Get in the car, and get Neal out of here."

That sounded like the best idea. Medicine Speaker knocked Neal's sparring partner out. The girl ended up in the back seat of the sedan that Peter had rented with Medicine Speaker. A shell-shocked Neal with a bump on his head slumped in the front seat next to Peter.

"You keep things interesting," Peter said to Medicine Speaker.

"We were keeping things under control," Medicine Speaker pointed out. He had his arm around the teenage girl who was still sobbing. "Hey, girl, were do you live? We'll drop you there."

"I'm a Bull Calf," the girl managed. "Sue Bull Calf."

Medicine Speaker gave directions and they dropped Neal's latest damsel in distress safely at her home, which consisted of battered mobile home with added rooms spiraling out from it. The yard, such as it was, was decorated with a rusty washer and dryer and at least three cars in various stages of dismemberment. It seemed as if a hundred people were stuffed into this enclosure by all the generations of eyes peering out of doorway and windows, the people leaning on vehicles, the kids stopped in mid-snowball fight in the yard. Medicine Speaker got out to walk the girl in. Various armed men came out to stare at Peter and Neal, but calmed down when Jack spoke to them. He went inside with the girl and was gone for long moments.

Finally, Jack came out with a grease soaked brown bag and a jar of jam. He said, "They wanted to give Neal something for helping the girl. Fried bread and homemade jam. It's all they have."

Neal looked wan and was holding his head, but he managed a smile and said, "I couldn't let her be beat up."

"Your heart is going to be the death of you," Peter chided.

"Nah, can't happen. You keep my heart."

From the back, Jack groaned. He said, "If you guys are going to go at it, just drop me in the snow. Crazy white men."

OooOooO

Back at the hotel, Peter sat Neal down in their hotel room and called Alex. "You bring a first aid kit?"

"Just call me the Red Cross. I'll be right there," Alex said.

Moments later, there was a knock. Alex with Mulder in tow entered on Peter's invitation. Mulder strolled over, tilted Neal's head to one side, and examined the bump. "Barely rates a two on the Mulder head injury scale," he said. "He'll be okay."

"You want to fuss over him or shall I do the honors?" Alex asked, opening his sizable first aid kit, which was substantially more like a field medic box, complete with pain medication.

Peter stepped forward and picked the few simple things he needed. An antiseptic swab, some aspirin, and a cold pack. He firmly held Neal's forehead as he cleaned up the cut in the center of the bump.

Neal put up with Peter's first aid. Funny, Peter's lover could fuss and fume over a fray on one of his beautiful suits and then endure an injury with stoic grace.

Put to bed, Neal held one of those blue ice packs to his bump and nursed his headache.

Alex and Mulder were in their own rooms, a regular thumping from the wall nearest their room explained what they were doing.

"Remember that first time?" Neal said. "At Byrdcliffe?"

"Like I'm going to forget that," Peter agreed fondly.

On second thought, had it been a year already? Had Peter already started missing anniversaries? He went for his cell phone, as if checking for a call, but really intended to check his calendar. Neal started to chuckle and said, "No, Peter, you did not miss our anniversary and, when it comes; all I want is a tumble in the sheets with you."

Sheepishly, Peter put down his phone and said, "I want to take you both to Belize."

"I think that is out of my range," Neal said.

"I am your range," Peter reminded.

"Yeah, but I think Hughes wouldn't buy that you need to fly me to some Caribbean Island."

"He was saying just the other day that you were working out surprisingly well and that you should take some time off."

"I think people would talk if you flew me and El to Belize," Neal said.

"Like I care," Peter lied.

"You do," Neal replied. He settled back on his pillows. "Besides, it's going to be a long time before I am able to leave the good old US of A."

"When the four years of our agreement with the agency has passed, no more lies," Peter said. "My career can take a flying leap."

"We'll see. I'm happy with what I can get," Neal said.

"A guy like you shouldn't have to settle," Peter replied, stripping down for bed.

"I didn't. I have my FBI agent. I have my best friend, El, my pals, Satchmo and Moz."

"Moz would not like being relegated to dog status," Peter pointed out.

"Hey, Moz is allowed on the couch," Neal said.

"Come here," Peter said, opening his arms.

"I do have a headache," Neal teased.

"I'll just hold you," Peter said.

"And kiss you once."

"Or twice."

"And touch you," Peter said.

"And…"

"Headache cured. Miracle."

"You're my miracle."

Neal was.

OooOooO

The next day was spent mostly resting, doing some research. Mulder wanted documents from an archive. Mulder was impatient and did not seem to want to wait for a search warrant.

Neal volunteered to reconnaissance with Mulder. Peter stared at him with a warning tattooed on his furrowed brow and narrowed eyes.

"Look, Mulder is an FBI agent. Could I get into trouble in the company of the FBI?" Neal argued.

Mulder's look of innocence, his hazel eyes wide open, his hands spread wide as if asking to be searched for ill intent, a smile half hidden on his generous mouth, probably didn't work on his Assistant Director. It certainly did not work on Peter.

"You take care of him," Peter threatened. "I'm not joking."

"Don't worry," Mulder said, tugging Neal out the door as if in a hurry to escape before Peter could protest more.

"So it's you and I," Peter said, looking at the mound of research documents.

"Yeah, it is," Alex said.

Peter made a face as he realized his lock picks were missing. He looked at the door and wondered how far away Mulder and Neal could be.

Alex said, "Live with it, Peter. Mulder will be more cautious with Neal to take care of, and Neal will be more careful because he knows how much I love Mulder. It's as close as either will ever come to being cautious."

"You're a wise man," Peter admitted, settling down at the desk. Alex settled on the bed, reading through transcripts from the '70s as they tried to sift through all the chaff to find a clue as to who might have taken the ghost shirt.

Hours later, Peter realized that he had never spent much time alone with Alex. Even when they were sharing the cabin at the artist's retreat, it was always he and Neal alone, or Mulder, Krycek, and Peter. He had stopped being as uncomfortable with the man, but he hadn't come to know him.

Now, on this case, Peter was fascinated by the man he only thought of as Mulder's lover.

Neal had told Peter that Alex had saved his life when Neal had stolen something from a dangerous man, that Alex had protected Neal from predators in prison, and that they had met from time to time even when Neal had been with Kate.

The records…

They were interesting. When the two of them, Alex and Neal played that trick on Peter, staging a mock abduction to jar Peter into realizing that he loved Neal, there had been almost nothing about Alex in FBI records. Peter checked again when Alex turned up with FBI agent, Mulder, the records simply showed that Alex had been invalided out after an injury to his arm and was now a consultant for Mulder.

Now, Alex's service record showed an exemplary academy record, an outstanding two years as a junior agent, a long period undercover on loan to the CIA, an injury, and qualifying again for active duty after rehabilitation.

"What were you doing for the CIA?" Peter asked.

Alex had abandoned his share of the records and had been staring out the window for several minutes. He half turned from his seemingly idle gaze and said, "You know that's classified."

"Why did you play that game with Neal? When you pretended to kidnap him? Took a big chance of getting shot. I wanted to tear your living heart out like you were doing to mine."

Peter could feel his face pulling into the expression Neal and Elizabeth called sucking a sour pickle. "I can see Neal pulling a stunt like that, but not you. What were you thinking? What would you have done if I caught you?"

"I'm good. I take chances. Still alive. Relatively intact. It was worth it for Neal's sake. For your sake, too."

"You didn't even know me," Peter said, coming closer to Alex, leaning to look out the window too.

"I knew that Neal loved you, and that he thought you were worth doing hard time for. You know I asked him if he wanted me to get him out of prison and he chose to do the time because you had already gotten under his skin deep."

"I figured that out from some comments Neal made," Peter said. "It took worrying about Kate to motivate him to escape." Peter grimaced and said, "Kate," as if she was a sour taste.

"Did you love him? Neal, I mean," Peter asked, getting more to the question that worried him.

"You know Neal and you can ask me that? Of course, I loved him. Picture us together. Would we not be beautiful together?"

Alex managed to glow. His big green eyes were entrancing, his long lashes were sooty fronds, his face was beautiful and his body well made. His mouth with its pink lips and heart bows was lovely. His sturdy, strong body begged to be touched.

Peter could see them together, Mulder's Alex and his Neal. Two lovely men, not a moral between them, embracing, touching mutual perfection, entrancing each other.

Peter was hard. He moved away from the window and said, "Shouldn't they be back by now? I miss Neal."

Alex wet his lips, still looking like sex on two legs. "Yeah, I could handle me some Mulder right now too. You don't have to worry about me and Neal anymore. Neal loves you, and I love Mulder like he is written in my heart."

"People don't talk like that in my world," Peter said softly.

"You're in my world now," Krycek said. "I am happy for you and Neal. He is a beautiful kid. He needed someone like you. Kate was no good for him."

"Do you know where she is, Kate?"

"I know."

"What game is she playing?" Peter said.

"I won't let her hurt Neal. Don't worry about her."

"You won't hurt her? That would break Neal's heart. He's still in love with you just a little, and he couldn't stand it if you did something to hurt Kate."

"I won't," Krycek said. "Unless it comes down to a choice between Neal and her. Or you or her."

"Me or her? You hardly know me," Peter said.

"I know that without you, Neal would stop being Neal and that would be tragic."

"It would," Peter said. He turned back toward Alex and held out his hand, "Thanks for watching over him when I could not."

"My pleasure," Alex said, taking the hand.

"Shouldn't they be getting back by now?" Peter asked.

"Yeah, probably found trouble. My Mulder is good for that."

"So is my Neal."

Without a further word, Peter and Alex grabbed coats, guns (Peter's service issue, his Glock 22. Alex carried a FBI Glock 23, plus a small of the back holster with his Ruger and yet another Ruger in an ankle holster). Alex always seemed to carry a knife as well or several. Peter had seen the stiletto type that seemed designed to kill the raptors that had attacked them in the cave, but his observant eye noted faint lines which indicated other concealed weapons.

Peter remarked, "I always thought a S.O.B. holster was a great way to shoot yourself in the ass."

"Haven't done it yet," Alex said.

"You don't worry about safety?" Peter asked.

"Mulder and I have been tested repeatedly, and we don't do it with anyone else these days."

Green glint of sparkling eyes that reminded him of blue eyes, Peter allowed his mouth to quirk into a smile and they went out the door.

OooOooO

"This won't get you in trouble with Peter?" Mulder asked.

"I can handle Peter," Neal answered, flicking the lock pick into the ancient tumblers. He heard the click and flipped the pick back into his palm. He liked using Peter's lock pick set. It was a reminder of different times before Peter was his and how far they had journeyed since that troublesome time.

The first time Neal knew that Peter carried a lock pick; it blew him away although he recovered quickly and hid it well. It was that thing with the Interpol agent, the missing FBI agent, and more clues to the disappearing and appearing Kate. It was a time when Neal doubted everything, even Peter. But Neal had not doubted for long. Peter had triumphed. His white knight had trumped his dark queen forever to mix game metaphors.

Neal moved aside to let Mulder go first. Mulder had the gun. It was odd to have someone else take the lead like this. It was always and forever Peter in front, protecting him. Unless it was Neal flying where he had been forbidden to go and Peter racing to protect him. Whatever. It worked for Neal and for Peter.

Mulder held Neal back with his free hand. It made Neal smile. It was so Peter like and, funny, because Alex was always so protective of Mulder that it was odd to have the agent being so careful of Neal. After checking thoroughly, Mulder allowed Neal to sidle in beside him.

"What are we after?"

"Now you ask?" Mulder asked, a crooked smile looking good on him.

"Does Alex ask?" Neal shot back.

"He argues. Always has. Then he rushes where angels fear to tread with me, for me. He always has even when we were enemies not lovers."

"Was there ever really such a time?"

"I hurt him, Neal, and he hurt me right back. We're not you and Peter."

"I know that," Neal said. "But I think Alex always loved you."

"And I know that," Mulder said. "Come on, what we're looking for are some old records concerning Jen Prairie Chicken Shoe. She spent a couple years here and there are some minor arrest records with addresses. If the shirt was taken to the cave and from the cave, it might be hidden some place on the reservation. Clues, Neal, we're looking for clues."

"I like Clue," Neal said, "Peter, El, and I like to play. El wins."

Mulder squatted to flip through files. Neal was a fast reader, but it was hard to believe that Mulder could actually comprehend anything the way he was going through documents.

Feeling slightly inadequate, Neal picked a random file cabinet and looked for anything with the name of Prairie Chicken Shoe and what kind of name was that really? Flapping Eagle, Medicine Speaker, Bull Calf were noble names. Prairie Chicken Shoe was just plain odd.

Hey, there was a manila folder smashed beneath the Pendaflex file hangers. Neal fished it out and smoothed the cardboard to see what was inside. There were a few pages of a badly copied report.

Looking up, Mulder asked, "You find something?"

One hand on Neal's shoulder, Mulder read the report. It was a missing person's report from an elderly lady with whom Jen Prairie Chicken Shoe had been staying. She reported that Jen has been missing for a week and that she suspected foul play. There was no investigation.

Mulder said, "Hang on."

A moment later, Mulder was on the phone to someone. The conversation was cryptic even from Mulder's end. "Got someone working on it."

"You think tribal chair's goons did it?" Neal asked. He had read it was the FBI or persons working for them, but no one knew for sure.

"I think we need to pay a visit to Mrs. La Pierre," Mulder said. "Come on."

"Don't you think we should pick up Peter and Alex first?"

"I'll call Alex," Mulder said.

A moment later, Mulder left a message for Alex. Peter was also not answering so Neal supposed they were on their own. Besides, who could get in trouble talking to an old lady?

OooOooO

Looking at his phone, Peter said, "This is strange. I have a missed call from Neal, but I didn't hear it ring."

"I have a message from Mulder. He and Neal are going to 23 Rural Road to interview the old lady with whom Jen Prairie Chicken Shoe was living."

"Shit," Peter summed up.

"Yeah, deep merde," Alex agreed. "Let's go. What were we thinking letting the loose cannons out together?"

Peter gave Alex a look of sympathy. It was a full time job looking after their lovers.

OooOooO

Neal drove the hummer. He liked the Aston Martin, but they would be driving miles on an unpaved road if the GPS was correct. The Aston Martin was not up to that kind of abuse. Mulder tried Alex again and said, "Something must be interfering with the signal. I know my phone is working…"

As if to ally itself with that thought, the cell phone warbled. Mulder put it on speaker once he knew who it was. The voice reminded Neal of Moz. "Hey, dude, we got your intell."

So it was one of Mulder's lone gunmen and the source of a lot of Moz's information also. Neal suspected that Moz was related to one of the three, but Moz clammed up when Neal pushed to find out which.

"Langly, I have Neal Caffrey in the car," Mulder said, glancing at Neal.

"Moz's kiddo," the gunman said. "I'm cool with that. So there's some censored records that we happened to have. Jen Prairie Chicken Shoe was last seen alive in the custody of FBI agents, Parnell and Manson. They took her from Pine Ridge jail on Tuesday, November 17, 1976 and she was never seen alive after that. Her body turned up Spring of 1977."

"Parnell and Manson were exonerated of charges of ethical violations but were encouraged to take an early retirement," Langly said. "They were dirty as hell. Bad hombres."

"I've heard of them," Mulder said.

Interesting. Peter didn't like it when Neal was critical of the FBI. Mulder didn't have the same hang-ups, apparently. Neal knew from what Alex had told him over the years that Mulder had been kicked out of the FBI, had been on the run at times from the law, and was only reinstated because Alex pulled some strings. It was pretty morally compromising, but that didn't bother Neal much. He had a sense of right and wrong that wasn't codified in any rule book.

Neal missed the turn off which was a lonely and battered sign that had once been white washed, but now was a weathered gray with deeply carved numbers that said 'RR 23'. He wheeled around, went back, made the turn and bounced down the deep ruts of the sparsely graveled road.

Mrs. La Pierre lived in a tiny house at the end of the road. The shack once had been painted yellow, but there were only a few curls of paint left. Someone had built a wheelchair ramp which was sturdy raw wood in contrast to the stairs which looked as if they could not safely hold a ghost.

A pack of dogs barked ferociously, but Neal had confidence in his charmed ways with canines.

Sure enough the dogs settled down as they saw Neal was not afraid of them. A blue eyed bitch sniffed his hand, and wagged her stubby tail. The old woman who came to the door peered out into her yard and said, "Abinogee, what are you doing, ghost dog?"

The woman gazed calmly at Mulder and said, "Come in. Makade Makwa said you were coming."

Mulder's voice said, "Neal, these look like bear tracks in the snow."

Mrs. La Pierre replied, "I told you Makade Makwa came to call. Come in."

OooOooO

"I could use some firewood, young man," Mrs. La Pierre said.

"Ah," Neal said.

Mulder said, "We'll get it."

As the two stumbled out to the woodshed, Neal said, "But you said there was a bear out here."

"He was here, but we could see him if he was still around. Man, look at the lights, Neal, look at the lights."

Montana sky went on forever. It made you feel like a dot in the universe and Mulder was right. The northern lights were playing across the sky, breath taking, unearthly, colors that made Neal's hand itch for a paint brush. Something about this wild place was bringing back a Neal he had almost forgotten, who dreamed of becoming a great artist instead of a scammer who sometimes forged paintings. One reason that Neal preferred documents, beyond the ease of selling them, was his intrinsic respect for painters. He hated to steal from the great men and women who so delighted his soul. Stocks, bonds, and artifacts like the Vinland map didn't much bother Neal's conscience. Although Peter always gently pointed out that ordinary people were hurt by financial fraud, too.

Gathering a heavy load of wood, Neal struggled back to the house. The ramp had been rock salted but was still slippery. Somehow this was not what Neal had envisioned when he'd been excited about going with Mulder on an investigation sans Peter.

"Good, good, megwich," Mrs. La Pierre said. She said, "Megwich means 'thank you' in my language. She had filled three mismatched bowls with hearty looking stew. "My friend, Makade Makwa, brought me the wood and this fine venison."

"Are you a Chippewa, Mrs. La Pierre?" Mulder asked. "I seem to remember reading that Makade Makwa was Anishinaabe or Chippewa; which do you prefer, Mrs. La Pierre?"

"I don't care. Either one will do. My father always said we were Anishinaabe, but they called me a Chippewa when I was in Flandreau boarding school where I met my husband, Scott La Pierre. He was a good Lakota man and even though we were supposed to be enemies, we fell in love. We ran away to be married when I was fourteen and I have lived here on this Pine Ridge Lakota Reservation since then. My children were enrolled here and after I buried my husband and children in the little graveyard on this ranch; my heart will remain here forever."

"We came to ask you…"

"About my daughter," Mrs. La Pierre said. "Jen was a sweet girl, a little wild and a bit man crazy, but a brave hearted woman."

"Jen Prairie Chicken Shoe was Kiowa," Mulder said.

"She was adopted by Kiowa people, but she was half Chippewa from me and half Lakota from my Scott. Scott was overseas in Vietnam, fighting the white man's war. I was very sick with the pregnancy. My sister in law was busy with my other children and I did not have my mother or sister to be at the hospital with me; it was hard being a Chippewa woman, living here on this Lakota reservation. My head was still dizzy with the drugs they gave me, and I signed some kind of papers. They took my baby girl, gave her to a rich white couple who wanted a little Indian girl to go with their Asian boy that they adopted. I found out about that when my girl came back to me. My little Jen-girl was head strong like her mother. She ran away when she was thirteen. She thought she might be Kiowa because she was adopted by white folks in Oklahoma near the Kiowa reservation. She ran away so often that her white family gave up on her. The Prairie Chicken Shoe family took her in and cared for her and they adopted her Indian way. Later on, some smart Indian woman opened up Jen's adoption and told her who she really was. She came here looking for me and finally she found me."

"The day Jen left, what was she doing?"

"I told her the shirt she took was bad medicine for her," Mrs. La Pierre said. "You don't take other people's medicine because you are jealous of your man. I told her to take it to Paha Sapa and I think she did, but maybe it was too late. Because the police arrested her and those bad men killed her. I know they did, but I am old and poor so how can I fight the FBI?"

"I am the FBI too, Mrs. La Pierre," Mulder said. "If I can bring your daughter's killers to justice, I will. Your daughter did take the ghost shirt to Paha Sapa because we found the box that Medicine Speaker used to store it in a cave there. The shirt was gone."

Mrs. La Pierre said, "I asked Makade Makwa to go get the shirt when he brought me the wood. It came to me in a dream that the shirt would be needed. Not that Makade Makwa has to be told what to do. He said, don't worry and that he already had the ghost shirt. He said my Jen-girl's killers would be punished by good white men and by one strong Lakota man."

Mrs. La Pierre shuddered and said, "I shouldn't be talking to you about Makade Makwa. He's a Manitou and it is never too wise to call upon them more than you have to."

"Eat your stew and have some fry bread, young man," Mrs. La Pierre said. "You are so skinny that you would blow into the next county if you farted."

Mrs. La Pierre laughed heartedly at her own joke, showing that she only had a handful of teeth left in her mouth. Her skin was weathered as if she spent her life outside. Her nose was a hook under sharp slaps of cheeks. Heavy folds of skin nearly covered her jet black eyes. Her long skinny braids were neat and tied off with pink little girl's scrunchies. Neal's hands twitched with the need to draw her.

Neal thought that the stew tasted weird, but was not as bad as prison food. He already knew about fry bread since he had been given some as a gift for saving Sue Bull Calf. He put homemade jam on his piece and ate it quickly. The coffee that Mrs. La Pierre poured him would have cleaned his paint brushes but he drank it anyway.

Mulder was busy with his questions and Neal borrowed a pencil and a tablet. He sketched the old woman, the skinny cat glaring at him from the top of a basket in the corner, and the ghost dog, the blue eyed Australian Shepherd dog that had invited itself into the house.

"You have a gift, young man," Mrs. La Pierre said. "My granddaughter, Josie, is down in the art school in Santa Fe. She would like to see one of those drawings."

Neal handed the woman the best of his sketches with a smile. You know, maybe Peter was right. Maybe Neal was a better artist than he thought if even a stranger like this old woman thought so.

Mrs. La Pierre gave Neal a kiss and said, "Makade Makwa said you should be careful, you young men. There are some bad men out there like those two FBI men who took my beautiful daughter from me and left her to rot on the prairie."

"Do you know the names of the FBI men?" Mulder asked..

"They are not like you, Mr. Mulder; they are, bad men. Parnell and Manson. They heard that Jack Medicine Speaker was back on the rez. They got worried, those killers. Maybe they want that no one look too close at them. Eh?"

"I'm going to call Alex again," Mulder said. "He better warn Medicine Speaker. Looks like Jack has some powerful enemies."

"No answer, no signal," Mulder said.

Neal's phone was the same.

"I think someone is blocking our cell phones. That technology is probably not common on this reservation, but the FBI has it. Possibly retired agents still have friends who would loan them what they needed," Mulder said.

"Mrs. La Pierre, I think you should go some place safe," Mulder said to the elderly woman.

"I am safe here. My Scott is buried here along with three of my children, two of my grandbabies. Makade Makwa watches over me. He comes to wherever the people are and he will always watch over us, better than Gitchi Manitou, the great spirit, because Gitchi Manitou has too many other things to do. Nanabosho only looks after his Anishinaabe people so he is always paying attention. Of course, sometimes he takes a liking to other people. He likes that crazy Santee Sioux, Jack Medicine Speaker and I think he might like you two pretty good too."

Neal said, "Mrs. La Pierre, I'm glad you think a spirit protects you, but I think you should come with us."

"I'll be fine," Mrs. La Pierre said, settling on her dingy couch with the ghost dog sitting with her.

Unable to persuade the old woman, Neal gave in to Mulder's belief that she would be safer with them far from her home. When Neal happened to look back, the ghost dog, the Australian Shepherd, had become a huge white bear, sprawled on the floor beside Mrs. La Pierre's couch. Neal didn't mention this to Mulder. Even Mulder would find that strange.

Once they were in the hummer, Mulder reached down, pulling a smaller version of his Glock pistol from an ankle holster. He asked, "You know how to use one of these?"

Holding his hands up to ward off the gun as if it was aimed at him, Neal said, "Felon, remember? No gun or back in prison. Besides you don't want me shooting that thing. I'd blow my foot off or worse."

Mulder sighed and said, "Yeah, Alex mentioned you don't like guns."

"Sorry," said Neal.

"It's okay, but you may not have a choice. Even Peter wouldn't want you to go into a fire fight without any means of protecting yourself."

"I'll take a gun and try to use it if Peter says I should," Neal said, but he devoutly hoped it wouldn't come to that. He may have been a lot of things, but he respected human life. He thought that people were miracles; although maybe some of them were like white elephant gifts that no one wanted.

OooOooO

Medicine Speaker was not responding to his phone either. In fact, the cell phones were now entirely useless, both sending roaming signals. Alex's phone was satellite based and he should have been able to get bars on Mars. He drove to the hotel down the road where Jack was staying and left a message when he found out that Jack was not in his room.

Meanwhile, Peter Burke was going nuts, at first quietly, then getting vocal about what he would do to Neal and Mulder when they caught up with them.

The sedan Burke had rented bucked and twisted on the road. Alex's left shoulder was aching the way it did when he was worried and tired. He was happy to have gained it back after ignorant peasants in Tunguska cut it off. One of the leaders of the evil conspiracy known as the Consortium had used alien technology to grow him a replacement. His explanation to the rest of the old men was that he found Alex more useful intact. The truth was he liked Alex in his bed, and he enjoyed him more with two arms than one.

Glancing at the side mirrors for the third time in five minutes, Alex finally had to say it. "Peter, we have a lot of company on this road for this time of night on a lonely reservation road."

"I noticed," Peter agreed. He said, "We should be almost there."

A few moments after Peter spoke, the hummer rolled out of a side road. Peter hit the horn, Neal leaned out a window, blithely waving, and almost got his pretty head blown off.

Shit. Alex hoped that Burke had recently taken a high speed pursuit driving class although this was definitely more like high speed eluding. He wished there was time to move to the Hummer which was customized and armor plated, but he didn't think that their little friends out there would have sat by idly and let them transfer. Alex leaned out the window and took a shot. The car right behind them veered off the road and spun in slow circles, taking out another car.

"Good shot," Burke admired.

"Going to take more than that to get us out of this," Alex yelled back.

"Where is Mulder headed?" Burke asked.

"Probably for Paha Sapa. We could make a stand in those hills," Alex said.

"I wonder what happened to Medicine Speaker?" Burke asked. "Made himself scarce when things got hot."

"Jack doesn't run," Alex said, "even when it would make good sense to run. Especially when it would make good sense to run."

The cars were coming closer and Alex gave them some inspiration to keep their distance. One of the pickups veered in front and a rifle poked from the back of a crew cab. Alex was back where he needed to be, his sight narrowed to a target, just a bull eyes to hit, no thoughts about who else this guy might be, wife, kids, maybe a dog. Damn, he was getting soft. He aimed for the arm and hit the rifle.

"Veer left," Alex shouted as he saw a flaming object thrown their way. "Molotov!"

Someone else had the same idea and another explosive bottle hit the car. The Molotov cocktails were the nastier ones, made with gelatin so the fire would cling. Home made Napalm.

The back fender was on fire. And thump, thump, thump, the tire was out too from an unlucky shot, unlucky for them, at least. Peter fought the steering wheel, trying to go with the swerve, but they were going too fast. They rolled.

OooOooO

If hell was gun fire, Molotov cocktails and cold; heaven was Mulder's hands laid on him with love. Alex was dazed, but he was well trained. He rolled with the brief bursts of pain from his body, found his gun, and ran toward the hummer. Neal tackled him and yelled, "No, I saw…I think I saw."

The hummer blew. Either a Molotov or something more serious.

"We head for the caves," Mulder shouted. "Alex, Neal, Peter! Run."

Good advice. They ran. They were at the foot of Paha Sapa. The good part was that there was a lot of cover. The bad part was that the ground was rough and it was difficult to run. Neal was surprisingly sure footed, but his lover, Burke, was not as agile. He stumbled. Alex jerked Peter back to his feet, and something burned along his arm. Damn.

"Keep going," Alex shouted. "I've been shot before. I'll be right behind you. Go. You too, Mulder!"

Just then Alex's lover spun in a slow, awkward circle toward the ground. Alex could see the blood with terrified eyes. He caught Mulder before he could hit the ground, thrust him at Neal whose face was ghost pale and who was still unarmed. "Get him over there, behind the ridge, and god damn you, you get a gun and you shoot unless you want these assholes to kill your lover."

Burke was crouching beside Alex. Alex shoved at him and said, "Get Mulder and Neal the hell out of here. I'll hold them off a bit and rejoin you. Didn't Mulder tell you I was no hero?"

"The opposite," Burke said, his tone strangely tender.

"Go. Neal can't get Mulder up there on his own," Alex said.

Burke looked distraught. Alex aimed his gun at him and said, "Go or I'll blow your brains out myself."

Which worked.

Not that Alex would have done it, but he probably sounded like he did. He fired fast and fiercely. He had faced death so many times. There were moments when he had hardly cared. Now, he had everything to live for. The love of his Mulder, work he loved, even friends.

His hands hurt he was firing so fast. Alex stopped long enough to shove a wad of torn shirt into his wound, damn left shoulder again. Did he have a target painted on it?

Voices. Shouts. Someone saying that it was just one man. Get him.

White guy, old white guy, not an Indian like most of the attackers. Alex drew a bead and he was still a damn fine shot. Right in the middle of the forehead. He didn't know the guy but it was another old man, the kind that invited Alex to ruin his life. That sucked him into the inferno with lies. Only Mulder had saved him, only loving Mulder.

Okay, if he had to pay any price to save Mulder, if he had to pay his soul, it was all nothing. If Mulder lived, the best part of Alex lived.

Alex leaned out to get another shot and a bullet smashed through his hand. His fingers quivered uselessly in pain. The shot was from a small caliber weapon; he would probably have some loss of function- but only if he lived through this. Alex wrapped another piece of his shirt around his hand.

They were coming closer. Only one way to slow them down. One chance to save Mulder.

Alex rose with strength that came from nowhere. Alex rose with love in his heart and death in his hand. Both guns firing and he is Doc Holliday fighting for his Wyatt. He is Sundance defending his Butch. He is Mulder's Alex for all of time.

OooOooO

Neal looked back just in time to see Alex rise out of the cluster of rocks which had been protecting him. What the hell was he doing?

The man was crazy. Alex was charging the multitude of attackers with both guns blazing. What the hell did he think this was? There would be no fade out for him, no artistic softening of death. Neal took the gun that Peter handed him and held it in his shaking hand. He didn't think he could kill. He dropped the gun.

"He's down," Peter said. "I have to go back for Alex."

Neal's one hand pressed over the wound in Mulder's chest, the other grabbed air as he tried to stop his lover from going back through the bullets to save Alex. Before Peter could scramble out of the ditch, someone leaped into it.

Medicine Speaker. He had not deserted them after all. Peter asked, "How did you get through those men?"

"Joined right in," Medicine Speaker said. He looked around and said, "Where's Alex?"

"Wounded," Neal said, hoping that was true and that his good friend and one time lover was not dead.

"Probably dead," Peter said glumly.

"Not Alex. Alex would take a heap of killing," Medicine Speaker said. He peered into the darkness and said, "I think I see him. The goons are close, but they don't have him. I'll get him."

Something emerged from the darkness. A shambling black bear.

Neal kept his hand on Mulder's chest, but he screamed inside. It was bad enough to be shot at, bad enough to have a friend's blood all over his hand, but now wild animals? Neal peered out of the ditch, fearfully waiting for the arrival of lions and tigers next.

The black bear stood and became a man.

"Makade Makwa, you son of a bitch. Where the hell have you been?" Jack yelled.

"Out there," the man said. He looked exactly like his picture. Medicine Speaker looked good for his age but Makade Makwa doesn't even have a white hair in his mane of slightly curly black hair. His eyes glowed in the light. Neal wondered how the night was lit with an intense white light, but in the luminosity he saw, dark skin like buckskin, broad nose, blunt not hooked like Medicine Speaker. High wide cheekbones. A grin of a mouth. Eyes like tortoise shell despite the fact that otherwise he looked like a full blooded Indian.

"It's a good day to die," Medicine Speaker said. "You coming with me, old friend?"

"It's a good day to live," Makade Makwa said, holding out a glowing garment made of fine white buffalo hide. It was marked with paintings and embellished with shell beads and porcupine quills, all beautiful as if they were sewn on the hide yesterday. "I've been keeping this for you, Medicine Speaker until you grew up enough to wear it. That time has come today."

A drum started to beat. Neal wondered who brought a drum to an ambush. But it was not a drum. It was the beating heart of Mother Earth. He felt Mulder's blood pulsing out between his fingers and he pressed harder. He prayed. He had no religion although he was spiritual in his way. He was a believer in something, mostly in the good that made Peter. He watched as Medicine Speaker shrugged on the ghost shirt and he had to turn his eyes away from the radiance, the incredible, otherworldly shine of that light.

Makade Makwa leapt out of the ditch. Bullets zinged and screeched through the night, but none penetrated the brightness of his being. He danced. He transformed. He was a man, an Anishinaabe man, all of the people in one body. He was a black bear and a warrior. He was a white bear and a healer. He was for one brief moment a rabbit and he was so very fast with no defenses except his speed so much like Neal in that moment. He became a spider, Nanabosho. He was the trickster, he steals the fire, he jokes his way to freedom and he laughs at himself.

Medicine Speaker was dancing too. He wears his ghost shirt and he is made of pure glowing fire. His hands swept upward, praising heaven, offered himself to the Great Spirit. His hands reached downward to the earth and he lifts power from his mother. His feet stepped with her might; he was graceful as the deer, strong as the buffalo. His bitterness washed away in his dance.

His face lifted to the sky and he sang from his heart.

Medicine Speaker reached Alex and he picked him up, still dancing, turned back toward Neal, Peter, and Mulder, who barely breathed.

Neal wanted to block the sounds of the shots out as their attackers fired hundreds of rounds, but his hands were both occupied with staunching the seemingly endless flow of blood from Mulder.

The bullets went molten as they encountered the white light surrounding Medicine Speaker. He stepped down, lowered Alex to the ground. Alex reached for Mulder. He was soaked with blood. His face was impossibly pale. He sounded like a an engine stuttering to a halt as he struggled to breathe, but he held tight to Mulder and his eyes stayed open, his face turned to Mulder.

Neal prayed that both Mulder and Alex would live. Or that they would both die. He knew now that they can never lose each other again. He knew that as he knew that he could never lose Peter. Peters take all of your heart to cherish, but they can never give your heart back. You will die without them.

Makade Makwa continues to dance, to transform, to grow until he encompasses the field. Neal can hear voices singing with him. He thought he heard Mrs. La Pierre's thin high voice joining in the song. Neal had the feeling that Makade Makwa's Anishinaabe people, wherever they were, whatever they were doing, stopped and sang, lending strength to Makade Makwa whose true name came to Neal in a laughing voice as kind as Peter's, as teasing as Neal's. This was Nanabosho, the changer, his spirit only lesser than Gitche Manitou, the Great Spirit, in Anishinaabe mythology.

Some of the goons fled. Some of them threw down their guns, and they wept. The ones who neither fled nor wept were found wanting. Makade Makwa gestured, and the men burned. They screamed and tried belatedly to flee, but they crumbled. When the fire sputtered out, they have become nothing but shadows burnt into the ground.

Afraid, Neal cowers before the creature when it comes back to them. Shaking his head, Makade Makwa becomes the white bear, and his fur is like a million diamonds and his face is every kindness Neal has ever known - he is Peter.

When Makade Makwa approaches the four men, he is an Anishinaabe man wearing his bear persona like a cloak. He reaches for Alex who gasped with what Neal knew instinctively was a death rattle.

"You man of darkness and of light. You who walked nearly to the end of a wrong way trail and then turned back to take your beloved's hand. You who cheated everyone including himself until you found the courage to fight. You who helped save my mother, our mother. You will not die here. You will live here. You will be where you belong with the warrior you love."

Alex breathed easier now and after a few moments, he sat up, still holding Mulder's hand.

"You who have suffered so much. Who has lost himself and found himself. Who nearly had everything taken yet would not put down the fight. You whose belief was shattered yet reborn. You will live. You will have what rewards you have earned. You will have Alex by your side, and your journey will be long but not weary. You will find so many secrets but never all of them. That will keep your life full. You will live forever in story, in song, in the dances of my people. I name you Wagoosh, the Fox and I claim you as my own. Now heal. Now live. Now rise up, and claim the man you redeemed, the man who saved you in being saved."

Mulder rose, his hand to his chest. Even the blood was gone. He embraced Alex and they rocked together, arms embraced, the world forgotten, complete. Utterly complete in each other.

OooOooO

Much later, back in the hotel room, Mulder stood Alex before him. "He took all your scars."

It's true. They are all gone. Alex looks for a mirror, but all he could see is Mulder, alive, loving him, gloriously in the flesh.

Naked together, they explore familiar routes. They know each other's bodies, what can continue all night and feel good, what is too intense for more than a fleeting touch, what arouses and what enflames. They know each other's souls and that is the most erotic thing of all, that they love each other totally. They know each other, these multi layered, complex men with histories so entwined they have never been truly apart and now, never will be.

The scar on Alex's shoulder is gone. He almost mourns it. The one on Mulder's shoulder is gone too. Alex still finds it hard to believe after all this time that Scully really shot Mulder, even to save Mulder from himself. He is glad to be alive though. He has Mulder now. He used to fight for his life and then have nothing to live for. When he laid it all on the line, when he threw his lot and his heart to Mulder; that was when he was born.

When Alex looks up from tracing the place where Mulder's scar had been, Mulder smiles. "I still have a scar on my heart from losing you the first time. He left that."

"All he left in mine is you, and I am filled."

Mulder ruffles Alex's hair. "All the white is gone. Every hair is black as night."

Alex doesn't say it but the incipient wrinkles that had been giving Mulder's face character were gone also.

What the hell had Makade Makwa done to them? Alex had an uncomfortable feeling that the creature had not just been waxing poetic when he said they would be together forever. Okay. As long as he had Mulder, no journey would weary him.

OooOooO

Elizabeth was pulling an all-nighter for a country western star who was in town promoting her autobiography. Peter had arrived at Neal's room with wine, flowers, and a smile. "We have the night," he announced.

Flopping in the chair that had become his, Peter grinned happily before he noticed the envelope on the table. Peter said, "They still haven't settled down back in South Dakota, but there's evidence all over the place that it was Parnell and Manson who killed Jen Prairie Chicken Shoe. Turns out that the tribal chair wasn't involved in that attack on us. My erstwhile colleagues just paid some of the chair's private army to wipe out a problem. They apparently thought we were investigating them!"

Peter shook his head. "Turned up a can of worms and never caught the fish I was aiming to catch with them."

"Hey, Mulder and Alex sent us a lab report and a security tape," Neal announced, leaning into Peter's chair. "What do you know!"

"What?" Peter asked.

"Medicine Speaker really wasn't after the Chippewa medicine bundle," Neal said, grinning.

"And you know that how?"

"The bundle is a fake," Neal said. "Look at the lab report."

Peter read the notes and said, "All the materials date appropriately."

Neal was bouncing. He said, "It's what's inside. Look at the X ray."

Peter grunted and took out the series of X Rays. He looked, looked again and he laughed, grabbed the bridge of his nose and just let loose with staccato chuckles.

The x ray pictures showed a small alien head, one of those classic 1990 big domed, big eyed creatures.

"Somehow I don't think that is a proper Anishinaabe dodem," Neal said.

"Jack Medicine Speaker was in Germany on a speaking engagement two years ago. I think this is him," Neal said, tossing the surveillance footage at Peter.

"I suppose Alex got this for you," Peter said. He walked over to Neal's computer and put the CD in the drive to view the clip. It showed a dark skinned man in a homburg hat which would hide a scalp lock and a Mohawk. He walked through the entrance of the museum.

"They ran though the entire twenty four hours from the security cameras. This man never emerged from the museum. Not using any official exit anyway."

"I don't have any jurisdiction over an event that happened in Germany."

"Guess you have to keep trying," Neal said.

"You took me three years," Peter said. "It was worth it."

"Yeah, but I think you won't get exactly the same fringe benefits from catching Jack."

"Don't want that from anyone but you," Peter said. He looked at Neal as if he was never going to stop looking, proud, loving, and delighted with him.

Neal could not resist embracing Peter, resting in his arms, his head against his lover's chest, not minding being so vertically challenged at this moment because he fit with Peter so well. Neal sighed and said, "All this and heaven too."

Sinatra was so very right and they stood swaying to the song, the dance of love holding them happily in that perfect moment.

The End.


End file.
